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LECTURES 


ON 


RHETORIC  AND  BELLES  LETTRES. 


BY 


HUGH  BLAIR,  D.D.  F.R.S., 

FROFESSOR  OP  RHETORIC  AND  BELLES  LETTRES  IN  THE  UNIVERSITY. 
AND  MINISTER  OF  THE  HIGH  CHURCH,  OF  EDINBURGH. 


J 


With  a  Memoir  of  the  Statjor'a  US* 


TO  WgiCH  ARE  ADDED, 

Copious  Questions ;  and  an  Analysis  of  each  Leetun 

BY  ABRAHAM  MILLS, 

TEACHER  OF  RHETORIC  AND  BELLES  LETTRES. 


Stcteotspe  5Hnfijersft£,  ©ollegc  atrti  Scjjool  lEoitfon. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

TROUTMAN  &  HAYES,  193  MARKET  STREET. 

1853. 


Entered,  acco.-ding  to  the  act  ot  congress,  in  the  vear  1833,  by  James  Kay  Jun.  6c 
Brother,  in  the  office  jf  the  clerk  of  the  district  court  of  the  United  States  in  and  for 
the  eastern  district  o^  Pennsylvania*    _ 


PRINTED  BY  SMITH  &  PETERS, 

franklin  Buildings,  Sixth  Street  below  Arch, 

Philadelphia. 


PREFACE. 


The  following  Lectures  were  read  in  the  university  of  Edinburgh,  for 
fwenty-four  years.  The  publication  of  them,  at  present,  was  not  altogether 
a  matter  of  choice.  Imperfect  copies  of  them,  in  manuscript,  from  note* 
taken  by  students  who  heard  them  read,  were  first  privately  handed  about; 
and  afterwards  frequently  exposed  to  public  sale.  When  the  author  saw 
them  circulate  so  currently,  as  even  to  be  quoted  in  print,*  and  found  him- 
self often  threatened  with  surreptitious  publications  of  them,  he  judged  it  to 
be  high  time  that  they  should  proceed  from  his  own  hand,  rather  than  come 
into  public  view  under  some  very  defective  and  erroneous  form. 

They  were  originally  designed  for  the  initiation  of  youth  into  the  study 
of  belles  lettres,  and  of  composition.  With  the  same  intention  they  are  now 
published ;  and,  therefore,  the  form  of  Lectures,  in  which  they  were  at  first 
composed,  is  still  retained.  The  author  gives  them  to  the  world,  neither  as 
a  work  wholly  original,  nor  as  a  compilation  from  the  writings  of  others. 
On  every  subject  contained  in  them,  he  has  thought  for  himself.  He  con- 
sulted his  own  ideas  and  reflections  :  and  a  great  part  of  what  will  be  found 
n  these  Lectures  is  entirely  his  own.  At  the  same  time  he  availed  himself 
if  the  ideas  and  reflections  of  others,  as  far  as  he  thought  them  proper  to  be 
adopted.  To  proceed  in  this  manner,  was  his  duty  as  a  public  professor. 
It  was  incumbent  on  him  to  convey  to  his  pupils  all  the  knowledge  that 
could  improve  them;  to  deliver  not  merely  what  was  new,  but  what  might 
be  useful,  from  whatever  quarter  it  came.  He  hopes,  that  to  such  as  are 
studying  to  cultivate  their  taste,  to  form  their  style,  or  to  prepare  themselves 
for  public  speaking  or  composition,  his  Lectures  will  afford  a  more  compre- 
hensive view  of  what  relates  to  these  subjects,  than,  as  far  as  he  knows,  is  to 
be  received  from  any  one  book  in  our  language. 

In  order  to  render  his  work  of  greater  service,  he  has  generally  referred 
to  the  books  which  he  consulted,  as  far  as  he  remembers  them ;  that  the 
readers  might  be  directed  to  any  farther  illustration  which  they  afford.  But, 
as  such  a  length  of  time  has  elapsed  since  the  first  composition  of  these 
Lectures,  he  may,  perhaps  have  adopted  the  sentiments  of  some  author  into 
whose  writings  he  had  then  looked,  without  now  remembering  whence  he 
derived  them. 

In  the  opinions  which  he  has  delivered  concerning  such  a  variety  of 
authors,  and  of  literary  matters,  as  come  under  his  consideration,  he  cannot 
expect  that  all  his  readers  will  concur  with  him.  The  subjects  are  of  such 
a  nature,  as  allow  room  for  much  diversity  of  taste  and  sentiment :  and  the 
author  will  respectfully  submit  to  the  judgment  of  the  public. 

Retaining  the  simplicity  of  the  lecturing  style,  as  best  fitted  for  conveying 
instruction,  he  has  aimed,  in  his  language,  at  no  more  than  perspicuity.  If, 
after  the  liberties  which  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  take,  in  criticising  the 
style  of  the  most  eminent  writers  in  our  language,  his  own  style  shall  be 
thought  open  to  reprehension,  all  that  he  can  say,  is,  that  his  book  will 
add  one  to  the  many  proofs  already  afforded  to  the  world,  of  its  being  much 
easier  to  give  instruction,  than  to  set  example. 


*  Biogrjyhia  Britanica.    Article  Addison. 


EDITOR'S   PREFACE. 


The  Editor  of  the  present  edition  of  Dr.  Blair^s  Lectures  on  Rhetoric 
and  Belles  Lettres,  has  endeavoured  to  present  the  work  to  the  public,  in 
a  style  which  he  thinks  will  meet  with  entire  approbation.  The  plates 
irom  which  it  is  printed,  were  originally  cast  for  Mr.  George  F.  Hopkins, 
from  a  late  London  copy,  and  were,  in  general,  found  to  be  very  correct ; 
a  few  errors  were,  however,  on  critical  examination,  detected ;  but  these 
having  been  carefully  removed,  the  Editor  has  now  no  hesitation  in  saying, 
that  this  is  as  perfect  an  edition  of  the  work,  as  any  previously  issued  from 
the  press,  either  in  this  country  or  in  Great  Britain. 

In  addition  to  its  correctness,  this  edition  has  to  recommend  it,  a  copious 
collection  of  questions,  which  were  prepared  with  the  greatest  care  and  at- 
tention. The  Editor  is,  however,  aware,  that  this  method  of  teaching  has, 
by  some  gentlemen  of  science,  been  objected  to ;  and  considering  the  man- 
ner in  which  questions  have  almost  uniformly  been  written,  the  objection  is 
certainly  not  without  foundation.  But  that  the  student  may  be  preserved 
from  the  disadvantages  arising  from  using  questions  unskilfully  prepared, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  be  relieved  from  the  tediousness  of  studying  the 
work  without  them,  the  Editor  has  been  careful,  so  to  construct  these  ques- 
tions, that  the  answers  which  they  require,  necessarily  include  every  sen- 
tence of  the  work  itself;  thus  effecting  the  double  purpose  of  greatly  facili- 
tating the  recitations  of  classes,  and,  at  the  same  time,  of  compelling  each 
scholar  to  learn  every  word  of  the  author. 

To  the  lectures  that  require  them,  the  Editor  has  also  affixed  analyses, 
which  are  principally  designed  to  facilitate  the  studies  of  young  gentlemen 
at  college,  and  of  young  ladies  at  school,  who  may  be  sufficiently  advanced 
to  pursue  this  course ;  and  it  affords  the  Editor  peculiar  pleasure  here  to 
state,  that  they  have  been  used  by  a  number  of  classes  of  young  ladies, 
educated  by  himself,  in  this  city,  with  entire  succes?.. 

In  preparing  these  analyses,  the  Editor  has  generally  followed  the  natural 
divisions  of  the  lectures,  as  they  are  laid  down  by  the  author  himself;  but 
from  the  necessity  of  making  each  one  of  nearly  the  same  length,  he  has, 
perhaps,  in  a  few  instances,  extended  the  number  of  his  subdivisions  be- 
yond their  natural  length :  he  presumes,  however,  that  no  inconvenience 
will  result  to  the  student  from  the  course  which  he  has  pursued,  as  the 
omission  of  such  subdivisions  as  may  appear  unnecessary,  will  be  attended 
with  no  material  consequences. 

New-York,  August.  1S29. 

4 


CONTENTS. 


user  pa«3 

I.  INTRODUCTION, ..     » 

II.  Taste, 1(5 

III.  Criticism— Genius — Pleasures  of  Taste — Sublimity  in  Objects, 27 

IV.  The  sublime  in  Writing, 3? 

V.  Beauty  and  other  pleasures  of  taste, 49 

VI.  Rise  and  progress  cf  language, 58 

VII.  Rise  and  progress  of  language  and  of  writing, 63 

VIII.  Structure  of  language, 78 

IX.  Structure  of  language — English  tongue, 89 

X.  Style — Perspicuity  and  precision, 101 

XI.  Structure  of  sentences,..        112 

XII.  Structure  of  sentences, 128 

XIII.  Structure  of  sentences — Harmony, ..  134 

XIV.  Origin  and  Nature  of  Figurative  Language, 146 

XV.  Metaphor, 158 

XVI.  Hyperbole — Personification — Apostrophe, 16S 

XVII.  Comparison,  Antithesis,  Interrogation,  Exclamation,  and  other  figures 

of  Speech 181 

XVIII.  Figurative  Language — General  Characters  of  Style — Diffuse,  Concise 

— Feeble,  Nervous — Dry,  Plain,  Neat,  Elegant,   Flowery, 19i 

XIX.  General  characters  of  Style — Simple,  Affected,  Vehement — Directions 

for  forming  a  proper  style, 205 

XX.  Critical  Examination  of  the  Style  of  Mr.  Addison,  in  No.  411  of  the 

Spectator, 216 

XXI.  Critical  Examination  of  the  Style  in  No.  412  of  the  Spectator 226 

XXII.  Criti  <d  Examination  of  the  Style  in  No.  413  of  the  Spectator, 235 

XXIII.  Critical  Examine  >n  of  the  Style  in  No.  414  of  the  Spectator 242 

XXIV.  Critical  Examinauon  of  the  Style  in  a  Passage  of  Dean  Swift's  writ- 

ings,   250 

XXV.  Eloquence,  or  Public  Speaking — History  of  Eloquence — Grecian  Elo- 
quence— Demosthenes, 260 

XXVI.  History  of  Eloquence  continued — Roman  Eloquence — Cicero — Mo- 
dern Eloquence, 273 

XXVIL  Different  kinds  of  Public  Speaking — Eloquence  of  Popular  Assemblies 

— Extracts  from  Demosthenes, 284 

XXVIII.  Eloquence  of  the  Bar — Analysis  of  Cicero's  Oration  for  Cluentius, . . .  298 

XXIX.  Eloquence  of  the  Pulpit, 312 

XXX.  Ci  itical  Examination  of  a  Sermon  of  Bishop  Atterbury 's, 326 

XXXI.  Conduct  of  a  Discourse  in  all  its  Parts — Introduction — Division — Nar- 
ration, and  Explication, 341 

XXXII.  Conduct  of  a  Discourse— The  Argumentative  Part — The  Pathetic  Part 

— The  Peroration, 353 

KXXIIl     Pronunciation  <t<  Deliverv, •    3f»5 

5 


VI  CONTENTS. 

XXXIV    Means  of  improving  in  Eloquence, 477 

XXXV.  Comparative  Merit  of  the  Ancients  and  the  Moderns — Historical  Writ- 
ing,   387 

XXX VI.  Historical  Writing. 398 

XXXVII.  Philosophical     Writing — Dialogue — Epistolary     Writing — Fictitious 

History, 410 

SXXVIil    Nature  of  Poetry — Its  Origin  and  Progress — Versification, 423 

XXXIX.  Pastoral  Poetry — Lyric  Poetry, 433 

XL.  Didactic  Poetry — Descriptive  Poetry, .. . .  44\ 

XL.!.  The  Poetry  of  the  Hebrews, 4", A 

XLI I.   Spic  Poetry, 47 i 

XL!  1 1.   Homer's  Iliad  and  Odyssey — Virgil's  .Eneid, 4rfl 

XLIV,   Lucan's  Pharsaiia — Tasso's  Jerusalem — Camofin's  Lusiad — Fenelon  s 

Telemachus — Voltaire's  Henriade— Milton's  Paradise  Lost, 493 

XLV.   Dramatic    Poetry — Tragedy, 50<f 

XLVI.  Tragedy— Greek,  French,  English  Tragedy, 51& 

XLVII.  Comedy — Greek   and  Roman — FrencL — English  Comedy, 639 


RECOMMENDATIONS 

TO  G.  &  C.  &  H.  CARVTLL'S  STEREOTYPE  EDITION  OF   BLAIR'S  LECTURES  ON 
RHETORIC  AND  BELLES  LETTRES. 


From  the  New-York  Evening  Post,  September 
25th,  1829. 

Blair's  Lectures. — The  excellence  of  Dr.  Blair's 
Lectures  on  Rhetoric  and  Belles  Inures,  has  been  so 
long  and  generally  acknowledged,  that  the  work  has 
acquired  the  authority  of  a  standard,  and  is  the  one 
most  used  in  our  colleges  and  principal  seminaries 
The  best  and  most  correct  edition  of  this  work  hith- 
erto before  the  American  public,  is  one  that  was  pub- 
Usned  about  three  years  ago,  by  Mr.  G.  F.  Hopkins, 
from  stereotype  plates,  the  proofs  from  which  were 
revised  by  several  distinguished  literary  gentlemen, 
with  an  especial  view  to  the  correction  of  whatever 
errors  might  have  occurred  in  the  quotations  from 
the  Latin  and  Greek.  From  these  plates  the  brothers 
Carvill  are  now  about  to  publish  another  edition;  but 
in  order  to  render  it  still  more  deserving  of  patronage, 
than  any  previous  one,  they  have  not  only  been  et 
greater  cost  with  regard  to  the  quality  of  paper,  &c. 
but  have  procured  the  entire  work  to  be  carefully 
read  by  Mr.  Abraham  Mills,  teacher  of  Rhetoric  and 
lii  lies  Lettres,  whose  edition  of  Burke  on  the  Sub- 
1  me  and  Beautiful,  our  readers  may  remember  that. 
we  mentioned  with  deserved  approbation.  In  the 
course  of  his  examination,  Mr.  Mills  has  discovered 
a  very  great  number  of  errors,  (not  less  than  eighteen 
hundred  in  all,)  of  greater  or  less  moment,  but  all  of 
sufficient  magnitude  to  require  correction.  We  have 
a  copy  before  us  containing  his  annotations,  and  in 
looking  over  it,  have  remarked  a  great  number  of  in- 
stances where  verbal  inaccuracies  had  occurred,  and 
where,  by  the  substitution  of  a  word  that  had  been 
omitted,  or  the  restoration  of  the  one  intended  by  the 
author,  for  the  improper  one  that  had  crept  into  its 
place,  and  been  hitherto  overlooked,  the  sense,  from 
being  obscure  in  some  cases,  and  in  others  unintelli- 
gible, has  been  rendered  perfectly  plain.  Besides 
these  important  alterations  and  amendments,  the 
punctua'ion,  which  was  before  very  imperfect,  has 
undergone  careful  revision :  and  a  good  number  of 
merely  literal  errors  of  the  press,  such  as  passing 
instead  of  passion,  seeks  instead  of  speaks,  and 


many  more,  some  of  which,  it  is  obvious,  must  hav 
rendered  the  sense  doubtful,  have  been  corrected  in 
this  edition. 

But,  although  it  is  important  to  have  the  work 
freed  from  inaccuracies  ot  these  kinds,  yet  the  edi- 
tion which  the  Messrs.  Carvill  are  about  to  publish, 
has  a  still  stronger  recommendation.  To  every  lec- 
ture, Mr.  Mills  has  affixed  a  list  of  questions,  which 
embrace  the  whole  subject  matter,  and  to  be  able  to 
answer  which  necessarily  implies  a  sufficient  ac- 
quaintance with  the  author.  It  is  remarked  in  the 
editor's  preface,  that  this  method  of  forwarding  lite 
end  of  tuition  by  questions,  has  been  objected  to  by 
some  well  informed  gentlemen  ;  but  we  are  inclined 
to  think,  that  their  objections  must  have  had  refe- 
rence to  the  numerous  interpolations,  notes,  and 
interrogatories,  with  which  many  excellent  books  on 
education  have  bsen  encumbered  by  quacks  in  lite- 
rature, desirou*  of  the  reputation  of  authorship, 
without  possess'np,  the  ability  to  write.  For  our  own 
part,  we  are  welt  convinced  that  the  questions  which 
Mr.  Mills  has  added  to  the  lectures,  cannot  but  have 
a  tendency  to  fix  the  topics  of  discussion  more  firmly 
on  the  mind  of  the  student.  In  addition  to  the  ques- 
tions, an  analysis,  or  brief  of  the  contents  of  each 
lecture,  is  given,  by  a  perusal  of  which,  after  die 
lecture  has  been  read,  all  its  topics,  and  in  their  pro- 
per order,  are  brought  at  once  to  mind.  In  every  re- 
spect, both  as  regards  the  additions  and  corrections 
of  the  editor,  and  the  quality  of  the  paper  and  typo- 
graphy, this  edition  of  Blair's  Lectures^  more  than 
any  other  we  have  seen,  is  worthy  of  public  patron- 
age. 

From  the  Morning  Courier  and  Enquirer,  Sep 
tember  29rA,  1829. 
Blair's  Lectures.— Messrs.  G.  &  C.  &  II.  Car- 
vill have  published  a  stereotyped  edition  of  Blair'w 
Lectures,  adapted  to  the  use  of  schools,  by  Mr.  Abra- 
ham Mills,  one  of  our  most  respectable  and  populai 
teachers.  We  have  examined  ttiis  work,  and  care- 
fully compared  it  with  the  most  anuroved  American 


RECOMMENDATIONS. 


edition  heretofore  published.  Mr.  Mills  has  made  an 
immense  number  of  corrections  in  typography  and 
punctuation,  we  should  suppose  nearly  two  thou- 
sand. At  the  end  of  each  lecture,  Mr.  Mills  gives  a 
list  of  questions,  so  worded  as  to  call  upon  the  recol- 
lection of  the  learner,  without  putting  the  answer 
into  his  mouth.  He  also  appends  to  each  lecture  a 
summary  analysis,  arranged  with  great  care  and 
judgment. 

This  edition  is  decidedly  superior  to  any  other  that 
we  have  ever  seen,  Englisn  or  American. 

From  the  New-  York  American,  September  30th, 
1629. 

Blair's  Lectures,  by  Mills.— We  have  looked 
over  this  new  edition  of  Blair,  published  under  the 
direction  of  Mr.  Mills,  of  this  city,  well  known  as  a 
successful  teacher;  and,  upon  comparing  it  with 
the  best  previous  American  edition,  are  satisfied  of 
its  superior  accuracy  in  typograpny  ann  punctuation 
Indeed,  but.  for  the  evidence  this  comparison  has 
furnished  of  the  fact,  we  should  have  hardly  thought 
it  possible,  that  a  book  so  constantly  used  as  a  stan- 
dard work  in  education,  and  printed  with  great  ap- 
parent care  too,  could  have  been  so  faulty. 

Mr.  Mills  has  appended  to  each  chapter  a  series  of 
questions,  the  answers  to  which  embrace,  of  necessi- 
ty, every  sentence  in  the  chapter,  so  as  to  require  the 
student  to  master  the  whole.  This  is  followed  by  an 
analysis  of  each  topic  treated  in  the  chapter.  The 
two  together  will  both  aid  and  test  the  scholar's  profi- 
ciency. 

From  the  Mercantile  Advertiser,  October  1st,  1829. 
Blair's  Lectures.— We  observed  a  few  days 
since,  a  notice  of  a  new  edition  of  this  standard  work 
cm  Rhetoric  and  Belles  Lettres,  in  which  high  praise 
was  awarded  to  Mr.  Abraham  Mills,  for  the  detection 
of  numerous  errors  in  a  late  American  edition — for 
an  analysis  of  each  iecture,  and  copious  questions 
arising  "from  them.  This  praise  was  awarded  on 
what  was  said  to  be  a  careful  comparison  of  the  two 
editions :  and,  as  we  were  struck  with  the  strength 
of  the  remarks,  and  wondered  not  a  little  at  the  bold- 
ness which  had  attempted  the  emendation  of  Blair, 
we  took  the  trouble  to  call  on  the  publishers,  Messrs. 
Carvill,  to  examine  and  compare  for  ourselves.  The 
result  has  been,  that  although  Mr.  Mills  may  have,  in 
one  or  two  instances,  been  too  fastidious  in  his  correc- 
tions, yet,  in  the  main,  they  are  judicious,  and,  whe- 
aer  the  errors  arose  from  inadvertence  in  the  learned 
author,  or  the  carelessness  or  ignorance  of  some  of 
his  editors,  the  present  corrections  are  invaluable  to 
those  for  whom  the  work  was  intended.  The  correc- 
tions in  punctuation  are  very  numerous,  and  almost 
invariably  unexceptionable.  The  analysis  is  such  as 
could  not"  have  been  made  but  bv  one  who,  like  Mr. 
Mills,  has  been  in  the  long  and  dailv  practice  of  in- 
Btructing  by  means  erf  fnese  lectures ;  and  tne  ques- 
tions which  he  has  arranged  at  the  close  of  all  tne  ec- 
tures  admittins  nt' illustration  ovauestion,  are  aisc 
theiBsultsof<!lo=»,*,«v  ''"",  •",'~m ■  ■i~">»«»v»:litf? 
01  Hie  rtuiimr  Otr  l*i\«  «V.  ,'T— i  w^n^eainOPC 
of  our  most  uoutlar  female,  and  one  of  our  best  male 
seminaries.  v»a  iiope  ma  »ra-'c  "xiy  xmpens9£e  fjf 
t'?3  labour  bestowed  upon  it,  and  remunerate  the 
publishers  for  -osir  enterprise,  art)  toe  attsnlani  ex- 
pense of  r* '.5»  ;  *■»  i< '  > l 


From  the  New-York  Daily  Advertiser,   October 
2d,  1829. 

Corrected  Stereotyped  Edition  of  Blair's  Lee 
tares. — Messrs.  Carvill  have  just  published  an  edi- 
tion of  Blair's  Lectures,  from  the  stereotype  plates  o( 
Hopkins,  after  making  numerous  corrections,  and 
introducing  many  additional  pages  of  matter,  peculi- 
arly well  calculated  to  make  the  work  still  more  use- 
ful in  the  study  of  rhetoric. 

It  is  a  well  known  fact,  to  all  persons  familiar  with 
the  highly  popular  and  useful  lectures  of  Dr.  Blair, 
that  numerous  cases  occur,  in  different  parts  of  the 
work,  in  which  the  very  faults  of  style  which  the  au 
thor  criticises  and  condemns,  repeatedly  occur. 
These  faults  are  so  obviousv  that  it  must  have  seemed 
surprising,  even  to  learners  themselves,  that  ihey 
should  have  been  allowed  to  disfigure  all  the  English 
editions,  even  the  most  recent,  as  well  as  our  own.  In 
addition  to  this,  there  were  almost  innumerable  irre- 
gularities in  punctuation,  calculated  to  confuse  and 
mislead  the  reader  or  pupil ;  and  Mr.  Mills,  to  whom 
the  defects  of  the  work  had  become  intimately  known, 
through  a  long  course  of  professional  use,  as  a  teacher 
of  rhetoric  in  some  of  the  most  respectable  academies 
of  this  city,  was  very  judiciously  engaged  to  make 
the  necessary  corrections.  We  have  had  an  opportu- 
nity to  jud?e  of  the  extent  and  importance  of  the  la- 
bour he  had  to  perform.  About  two  thousand  correc- 
tions were  made  in  the  plates ;  and,  in  addition  to 
these,  a  series  of  questions  follows  everv  lecture, 
closely  connected  with  the  ^..iject,  and  requiring  in 
the  pupil  a  thorough  knowlt^e  of  the  lesson.  These 
questions  amount  To  five  thousand  seven  hundred  and 
fifty  in  all ;  and  each  lecture  is  also  furnished  witli  a 
brief  analysis,  of  great  convenience  an^  use.  We 
shall  expect  to  see  this  improved  wort  .  *>  .(.blished  in 
England 


From  the  New-  York  Commercial  Advertiser,  Oc- 
tober 3d,  1829. 
The  Messrs.  Carvills  have  just  issued  a  new  edi- 
tion of  Blair's  Lectures,  the  text  for  which  is  perhnp 
entitled  to  be  called  immaculate.     A  few  years  ago 
an  edition  was  printed  with  extraordinary  care,  from 
stereotype  plates.  Nearly  two  thousand  errors  have 
however,  been  detected  by  Mr.  Abraham  Mills,  wel 
known  as  a  teacher  in  this  city.    Some  few  of  thes# 
may,  by  possibility,  have  escaped  Dr.  Blair  himsell, 
though  they  are  violations  of  his  own  rules.     Thf 
bulk  of  them,   however,   had  been  accumulating 
through  the  successive  editions  of  the  work,  as  the) 
were  published  in  Great  Britain  and  this  country. 
Many  were  of  a  serious  character,  deforming  the 
sense  ;  while  all  were  important  in  a  work  expressly 
]  treating  of  accuracy  in  style.  The  punctuation  in  the 
I  former  editions  was  very  slovenly.  It  has,  as  we  have 
I  ascertain^!  nv  an  examination  of  the  copy  sent  tc 
I  us,  ana  by  comparing  it  with  mat  imprinted  from 
|  the  old  plates,  been  judiciously  corrected   by  Mr. 
I  Mills.   Tne  questions  and  analysis  annexed  to  each 
i  lecture,  are  calculated  to  be  of  much  practical  use  ir, 
j  schools,  and  even  in  colleges,  according  to  the  pre- 
I  sent  standard  of  education  in  this  country.    The 
!  questions  comprehend  the  literal  whole  of  each  lec- 
ture ;  the  analysis,  the  whole  of  each  of  them  in  sub- 


LECTURE  I. 


INTRODUCTION. 


One  of  the  most  distinguished  privileges  which  Provide*  <«  has 
conferred  upon  mankind,  is  the  power  of  communicating  their 
thoughts  to  one  another.  Destitute  of  this  power,  reason  would  be 
a  solitary,  and,  in  some  measure,  an  unavailable  principle.  Speech 
is  the  great  instrument  by  which  man  becomes  beneficial  to  man : 
and  it  is  to  the  intercourse  and  transmission  of  thought,  by  means  of 
speech,  that  we  are  chiefly  indebted  for  the  improvement  of  thought 
itself.  Small  are  the  advances  which  a  single  unassisted  individual 
can  make  towards  perfecting  any  of  his  powers.  What  we  call 
human  reason,  is  not  the  effort  or  ability  of  one,  so  much  as  it  is 
the  result  of  the  reason  of  many,  arising  from  lights  mutually  com- 
municated, in  consequence  of  discourse  and  writing. 

It  is  obvious,  then,  that  writing  and  discourse  are  objects  entitled 
to  the  highest  attention.  Whether  the  influence  of  the  speaker,  or 
the  entertainment  of  the  hearer,  be  consulted ;  whether  utility  or 
pleasure  be  the  principal  aim  in  view,  we  are  prompted,  by  the 
strongest  motives,  to  study  how  we  may  communicate  our  thoughts 
to  one  another  with  most  advantage.  Accordingly  we  find,  that  in 
almost  every  nation,  as  soon  as  language  had  extended  itself  beyond 
that  scanty  communication  which  was  requisite  for  the  supply  of 
men's  necessities,  the  improvement  of  discourse  began  to  attract 
regard.  In  the  language  even  of  rude  uncultivated  tribes,  we  can 
trace  some  attention  to  the  grace  and  force  of  those  expressions 
which  they  used,  when  they  sought  to  persuade  or  to  affect.  They 
were  early  sensible  of  a  beauty  in  discourse,  and  endeavoured  to 
give  it  certain  decorations,  which  experience  had  taught  them  it 
was  capable  of  receiving,  long  before  the  study  of  those  decora- 
tions was  formed  into  a  regular  art. 

But,  among  nations  in  a  civilized  state,  no  art  has  been  cultivated 
»vith  more  care,  than  that  of  language,  style,  and  composition.  The 
attention  paid  to  it  may,  indeed,  be  assumed  as  one  mark  of  the 
progress  of  society  towards  its  most  improved  period.  For,  accord- 
ing as  society  improves  and  flourishes,  men  acquire  more  influence 
over  one  another  by  means  of  reasoning  and  discourse ;  and  in  pro- 
portion as  that  influence  is  felt  to  enlarge,  it  must  follow,  as  a  natu- 
ral consequence,  that  they  will  bestow  more  care  upon  the  methods 
B  2 


10  INTRODUCTION.  [lect.  l 

of  expressing  their  conceptions  with  propriety  and  eloquence. 
Hence  we  find,  that  in  all  the  polished  nations  of  Europe,  this  study 
has  been  treated  as  highly  important,  and  has  possessed  a  consider, 
able  place  in  every  plan  of  liberal  education. 

Indeed,  when  the  arts  of  speech  and  writing  are  mentioned,  I 
am  sensible  that  prejudices  against  them  are  apt  to  rise  in  the 
minds  of  many.  A  sort  of  art  is  immediately  thought  of,  that  ^ 
ostentatious  and  deceitful ;  the  minute  and  trifling  study  of  words 
alone  ;  the  pomp  of  expression ;  the  studied  fallacies  of  rhetoric ; 
ornament  substituted  in  the  room  of  use.  We  need  not  wonder, 
that,  under  such  imputations,  all  study  of  discourse  as  an  art, 
should  have  suffered  in  the  opinion  of  men  of  understanding ;  and 
I  am  far  from  denying,  that  rhetoric  and  criticism  have  sometimes 
been  so  managed  as  to  tend  to  the  corruption,  rather  than  to  the 
improvement,  of  good  taste  and  true  eloquence.  But  sure  it  is 
equally  possible  to  apply  the  principles  of  reason  and  good  sense  to 
this  art,  as  to  any  other  that  is  cultivated  among  men.  If  the  fol- 
lowing Lectures  have  any  merit,  it  will  consist  in  an  endeavour  to 
substitute  the  application  of  these  principles  in  the  place  of  artificial 
and  scholastic  rhetoric ;  in  an  endeavour  to  explode  false  orna- 
ment, to  direct  attention  more  towards  substance  than  show,  to  re- 
commend good  sense  as  the  foundation  of  all  good  composition, 
and  simplicity  as  essential  to  all  true  ornament. 

When  entering  on  this  subject,  I  may  be  allowed,  on  this  occa- 
sion, to  suggest  a  few  thoughts  concerning  the  importance  and  ad- 
vantages of  such  studies,  and  the  rank  they  are  entitled  to  possess 
in  academical  education.*  I  am  under  no  temptation,  for  this  pur- 
pose, of  extolling  their  importance  at  the  expense  of  any  other  de- 
partment of  science.  On  the  contrary,  the  study  of  Rhetoric  and 
Belles  Lettres  supposes  and  requires  a  proper  acquaintance  with 
the  rest  of  the  liberal  arts.  It  embraces  them  all  within  its  circle, 
and  recommends  them  to  the  highest  regard.  The  first  care  of  all 
such  as  wish  either  to  write  with  reputation,  or  to  speak  in  public 
so  as  to  command  attention,  must  be,  to  extend  their  knowledge ; 
to  lay  in  a  rich  store  of  ideas  relating  to  those  subjects  of  which  the 
occasions  of  life  may  call  them  to  discourse  or  to  write.  Hence, 
among  the  ancients,  it  was  a  fundamental  principle,  and  frequently 
inculcated,  "  Quod  omnibus  disciplinis  et  artibus  debet  esse  instruc- 
ts orator;"  that  the  orator  ought  to  be  an  accomplished  scholar,  and 
conversant  in  every  part  of  learning.  It  is  indeed  impossible  to  con- 
trive an  art,  and  very  pernicious  it  were  if  it  could  be  contrived,  which 
should  give  the  stamp  of  merit  to  any  composition  rich  or  splendid 
in  expression,  but  barren  or  erroneous  in  thought.  They  are  the 
wretched  attempts  towards  an  art  of  this  kind,  which  have  so  often 

*  The  author  was  the  first  who  read  lectures  on  this  subject  in  the  university  of 
Edinburgh.  He  began  with  reading  them  in  a  private  character  in  the  year  1759.  In 
the  following  year  he  was  chosen  Professor  of  Rhetoric  by  the  magistrates  and 
town-council  of  Edinburgh  ;  and,  in  1762,  his  Majesty  was  pleased  to  erect  and 
endow  a  Profession  of  Rhetoric  and  Belles  Lettres  in  that  university,  and  the  author 
was  appointed  the  first  Regius  Professor. 


lect.  i.]  INTRODUCTION.  11 

disgraced  oratory,  and  debased  it  below  its  true  standard.  The 
graces  of  composition  have  been  employed  to  disguise  or  to  supply 
the  want  of  matter;  and  the  temporary  applause  of  the  ignorant 
has  been  courted,  instead  of  the  lasting  approbation  of  the  discern- 
ing. But  such  imposture  can  never  maintain  its  ground  long. 
Knowledge  and  science  must  furnish  the  material  5  that  form  the 
body  and  substance  of  any  valuable  composition.  Rhetoric  serves 
to  add  the  polish ;  and  we  know  that  none  but  firm  and  solid  bodies 
can  be  polished  well. 

Of  those  who  peruse  the  following  Lectures,  some  by  the  pro- 
fession to  which  they  addict  themselves,  or  in  consequence  of  their 
prevailing  inclination,  may  have  the  view  of  being  employed  in  com- 
position, or  in  public  speaking.  Others,  without  any  prospect  of 
this  kind,  may  wish  only  to  improve  their  taste  with  respect  to  wri- 
ting and  discourse,  and  to  acquire  principles  which  will  enable  them 
to  judge  for  themselves  in  that  part  of  literature  called  the  Belles 
Lettres. 

With  respect  to  the  former,  such  as  may  have  occasion  to  commu- 
nicate their  sentiments  to  the  public,  it  is  abundantly  clear  that  some 
preparation  of  study  is  requisite  for  the  end  which  they  have  in 
view.  To  speak  or  to  write  perspicuously  and  agreeably  with  puri- 
ty, with  grace  and  strength,  are  attainments  of  the  utmost  conse- 
quence to  all  who  purpose,  either  by  speech  or  writing,  to  address 
the  public.  For  without  being  master  of  those  attainments,  no  man 
can  do  justice  to  his  own  conceptions ;  but  how  rich  soever  he  may 
be  in  knowledge  and  in  good  sense,  will  be  able  to  avail  himself  less 
of  those  treasures,  than  such  as  possess  not  half  his  store,  but  who 
can  display  what  they  possess  with  more  propriety.  Neither  are 
these  attainments  of  that  kind  for  which  we  are  indebted  to  nature 
merely.  Nature  has,  indeed,  conferred  upon  some  a  very  favour 
able  distinction  in  this  respect,  beyond  others.  But  in  these,  as  in 
most  other  talents  she  bestows,  she  has  left  much  to  be  wrought  out 
by  every  man's  own  industry.  So  conspicuous  have  been  the  effects 
of  study  and  improvement  in  every  part  of  eloquence ;  such  remark 
able  examples  have  appeared  of  persons  surmounting,  by  their  dili 
gence,  the  disadvantages  of  the  most  untoward  nature,  that  among 
the  learned  it  has  long  been  a  contested,  and  remains  still  an  unde- 
cided point,  whether  nature  or  art  confer  most  towards  excelling 
in  writing  or  discourse. 

With  respect  to  the  manner  in  which  art  can  most  effectually  fur- 
nish assistance  for  such  a  purpose,  there  may  be  diversity  of  opinions. 
I  by  no  means  pretend  to  say  that  mere  rhetorical  rules,  how  just 
soever,  are  sufficient  to  form  an  orator.  Supposing  natural  genius  to 
be  favourable,  more  by  a  great  deal  will  depend  upon  private  ap- 
plication and  study,  than  upon  any  system  of  instruction  that  is  ca- 
pable of  heing  publicly  communicated.  But  at  the  same  time, 
though  rules  and  instructions  cannot  do  all  that  is  requisite,  they  may, 
however,  do  much  that  is  of  real  use.  They  cannot,  it  is  true,  in- 
spire genius ;  but  they  can  direct  and  assist  it.  They  cannot  remedy 
barrenness  ;  butthey  may  correct  redundancy      They  point  out  pro 


18  INTRODUCTION.  [lect.  i. 

per  models  for  imitation.  They  bring  into  view  the  chief  beauties 
that  ought  to  be  studied,  and  the  principal  thoughts  that  ought  to  be 
avoided:  and  thereby  tend  to  enlighten  taste,  and  to  lead  genius 
trom  unnatural  deviations,  into  its  proper  channel.  What  would  not 
avail  for  the  production  of  great  excellencies,  may  at  least  serve  to 
prevent  the  commission  of  considerable  errors. 

All  that  regards  the  study  of  eloquence  and  composition,  merits 
the  higher  attention  upon  this  account,  that  it  is  intimately  connect- 
ed with  the  improvement  af  our  intellectual  powers.  For  I  must 
be  allowed  to  say,  that  when  we  are  employed,  after  a  proper  man- 
ner, in  the  study  of  composition,  we  are  cultivating  reason  itself. 
True  rhetoric  and  sound  logic  are  very  nearly  allied.  The  study  of 
arranging  and  expressing  our  thoughts  with  propriety,  teaches  to 
think  as  well  as  to  speak  accurately.  By  putting  our  sentiments  into 
words,  we  always  conceive  them  more  distinctly.  Every  one  who 
has  the  slightest  acquaintance  with  composition  knows,  that  when  he 
expresses  himself  ill  on  any  subject,  when  his  arrangement  is  loose, 
and  his  sentences  become  feeble,  the  defects  of  his  style  can,  al- 
most on  every  occasion,  be  traced  back  to  his  indistinct  conception 
of  the  subject:  so  close  is  the  connexion  between  thoughts  and  the 
words  in  which  they  are  clothed. 

The  study  of  composition,  important  in  itself  at  all  times,  has  ac- 
quired additional  importance  from  the  taste  and  manners  of  the 
present  age.  It  is  an  age  wherein  improvements  in  every  part  of 
science,  have  been  prosecuted  with  ardour.  To  all  the  liberal  arts 
much  attention  has  been  paid ;  and  to  none  more  than  to  the  beauty 
of  language,  and  the  grace  and  elegance  of  every  kind  of  writing. 
The  public  ear  is  become  refined.  It  will  not  easily  bear  wnai  is 
slovenly  and  incorrect.  Every  author  must  aspire  to  some  merit 
in  expression,  as  well  as  in  sentiment,  if  he  would  not  incur  the 
danger  of  being  neglected  and  despised. 

I  will  not  deny  that  the  love  of  n...iute  elegance,  and  attention  to 
inferior  ornaments  of  composition,  may  at  present  have  engrossed 
too  great  a  degree  of  the  public  regard.  It  is  indeed  my  opinion, 
that  we  lean  to  this  extreme;  often  more  careful  of  polishing  style, 
than  of  storing  it  with  thought.  Yet  hence  arises  a  new  reason  for 
the  study  of  just  and  proper  composition.  If  it  be  requisite  not  to 
be  deficient  in  elegance  o~  ornament  in  times  when  they  are  in  such 
high  estimation,  it  is  still  more  requisite  to  attain  the  power  of 
distinguishing  false  ornament  from  true,  in  order  to  prevent  our  being 
(tarried  away  by  that  torrent  of  false  and  frivolous  taste,  which  never 
fails,  when  it  is  prevalent,  to  sweep  along  with  it  the  raw  and  the  ig- 
norant. They  who  have  "ever  studied  eloquence  in  its  principles, 
nor  have  been  trained  to  attend  to  the  genuine  and  manly  beauties  of 
good  writing,  are  always  ready  to  be  caught  by  the  mere  glare  of 
language :  and  when  thev  come  to  speak  in  public,  or  to  compose, 
have  no  other  standard  on  which  to  form  themselves,  except  what 
chances  to  be  fashionable  and  popular,  how  corrupted  soever,  or  er- 
roneous, that  may  be. 

But  as  there  are  many  who  have  no  such  objects  as  either  com 


lect.  i.]  INTRODUCTION.  13 

position  or  public  speaking  in  view,  let  us  next  consider  what  advan- 
tages may  be  derived  by  them,  from  such  studies  as  form  the  subject 
?f  these  lectures.  To  them,  rhetoric  is  not  so  much  a  practical 
art  as  a  speculative  science;  and  the  same  instructions  which  assist 
ethers  in  composing,  will  assist  them  in  discerning  and  relishing 
the  beauties  of  composition.  Whatever  enables  genius  to  execute 
well,  will  enable  taste  to  criticise  justly. 

When  we  name  criticising,  prejudices  may  perhaps  arise,  of  the 
same  kind  with  those  which  I  mentioned  before  with  respect  to  rhe- 
toric. As  rhetoric  has  been  sometimes  thought  to  signify  nothing 
more  than  the  scholastic  study  of  words,  and  phrases,  and  tropes,  so 
criticism  has  been  considered  as  merely  the  art  of  finding  faults; 
as  the  frigid  application  of  certain  technical  terms,  by  means  of 
which  persons  are  taught  to  cavil  and  censure  in  a  learned  manner. 
But  this  is  the  criticism  of  pedants  only.  True  criticism  is  a  liberal 
and  humane  art.  It  is  the  offspring  of  good  sense  and  refined  taste. 
It  aims  at  acquiring  a  just  discernment  of  the  real  merit  of  "authors. 
It  promotes  a  lively  relish  of  their  beauties,  while  it  preseiwes  us 
from  that  blind  and  implicit  veneration  which  would  confound  their 
beauties  and  faults  in  our  esteem.  It  teaches  us,  in  a  word,  to  ad- 
mire and  to  blame  with  judgment,  and  not  to  follow  the  crowd 
blindly. 

In  an  age  when  works  of  genius  and  literature  are  so  frequently 
the  subjects  of  discourse,  when  every  one  erects  himself  into  a  judge, 
and  when  we  can  hardly  mingle  in  polite  society  without  bearing 
some  share  in  such  discussions;  studies  of  this  kind,  it  is  not  to  be 
doubted,  will  appear  to  derive  part  of  their  importance  from  the  use 
to  which  they  may  be  applied  in  furnishing  materials  for  those  fash- 
ionable topics  of  discourse,  and  thereby  enabling  us  to  support  a 
proper  rank  in  social  life. 

But  I  should  be  scrry  if  we  could  not  rest  the  merit  of  such  stu- 
dies on  somewhat  of  solid  andintrinsical  use,  independent  of  appear- 
ance and  show.  The  exercise  of  taste  and  of  sound  criticism  is,  in 
truth,  one  of  the  most  improving  employments  of  the  understandiig. 
To  apply  the  principles  of  good  sense  to  composition  and  discourse ; 
to  examine  what  is  beautiful  and  why  it  is  so ;  to  employ  ourselves 
in  distinguishing  accurately  between  the  specious  and  the  solid,  be- 
tween affected  and  natural  ornament,  must  certainly  improve  us  not 
a  little  in  the  most  valuable  part  of  all  philosophy,  the  philosophy 
of  human  nature.  For  such  disquisitions  are  very  intimately  con- 
nected with  the  knowledge  of  ourselves.  They  necessarily  lead  us 
to  reflect  on  the  operations  of  the  imagination,  and  the  movements 
of  the  heart;  and  increare  our  acquaintance  with  some  of  the  most 
refined  feelings  which  belong  to  our  frame. 

Logical  and  ethical  disquisitions  move  in  a  higher  sphere ;  and 
are  conversant  with  objects  of  a  more  severe  kind ;  the  progress  of 
the  understanding  in  its  search  after  knowledge,  and  the  direction 
of  the  will  in  the  proper  pursuit  of  good.  They  point  out  to 
man  the  improvement  of  his  nature  as  an  intelligent  being;  and  his 
duties  as  the  subject  of  moral  obligation.     Belles  Lettres  an.I  criti 


14  INTRODUCTION.  [lect.  u 

cism  chiefly  consider  him  as  a  being  endowed  with  those  powers  of 
uiste  and  imagination,  which  were  intenaed  to  embellish  his  mind, 
and  to  supply  him  with  rational  and  useful  entertainment.  They 
open  a  field  of  investigation  peculiar  to  themselves.  All  that  relates 
to  beauty,  harmony,  grandeur,  and  elegance;  all  that  can  sooth  the 
mind,  gratify  the  fancy,  or  move  the  affections,  belongs  to  their  pro- 
vince. They  present  human  nature  under  a  different  aspect  from  that 
which  it  assumes  when  viewed  by  other  sciences.  They  bring  to 
lignt  various  springs  of  action,  which,  without  their  aid,  might  have 
passed  unobserved;  and  which,  though  of  a  delicate  nature,  fre- 
quently exert  a  powerful  influence  on  several  departments  of  human 
lite. 

such  studies  have  also  this  peculiar  advantage,  that  th^y  exercise 
our  reason  without  fatiguing  it.  They  lead  to  inquiries  acute,  but 
not  painful ;  profound,  but  not  dry  nor  abstruse.  They  strew  flowers 
in  tne  path  of  science;  and  while  they  keep  the  mind  bent,  in  some 
degree,  and  active,  they  relieve  it  at  the  same  time  from  that  more 
toilsome  labour  to  which  it  must  submit  in  the  acquisition  of  neces- 
sary erudition,  or  the  investigation  of  abstract  truth. 

The  cultivation  of  taste  is  farther  recommended  by  the  happy  ef- 
fects which  it  naturally  tends  to  produce  on  human  life.  The  most 
busy  man,  in  the  most  active  sphere,  cannot  be  always  occupied  by 
business.  Men  of  serious  professions  cannot  always  be  on  the  stretch 
of  serious  thought.  Neither  can  the  most  gay  and  flourishing  situa- 
tions of  fortune  afford  any  man  the  power  of  filling  all  his  hours  with 
pleasure.  Life  must  always  languish  in  the  hands  of  the  idle.  It 
will  frequently  languish  even  in  the  hands  of  the  busy,  if  they  ha\  e  not 
some  employments  subsidiary  to  that  which  forms  their  main  pursuit. 
How  then  shall  these  vacant  spaces,  those  unemployed  intervals, 
which  more  or  less,  occur  in  the  life  of  every  one,  be  filled  up! 
How  can  we  contrive  to  dispose  of  them  in  any  way  that  shall  bv 
more  agreeable  in  itself,  or  more  consonant  to  the  dignity  of  the 
human  mind,  than  in  the  entertainments  of  taste,  and  the  study  of 
polite  literature?  He  who  is  so  happy  as  to  have  acquired  a  relish 
for  these,  has  always  at  hand  an  innocent  and  irreproachable  am-ise- 
ment  for  his  leisure  hours,  to  save  him  from  the  danger  of  many  a 
pernicious  passion.  He  is  not  in  hazard  of  being  a  burden  to  him- 
self. He  is  not  obliged  to  fly  to  low  company,  or  to  court  the  riot  ol 
loose  pleasures,  in  order  to  cure  the  tediousness  of  existence. 

Providence  seems  plainly  to  have  pointed  out  this  useful  purpose 
to  which  the  pleasures  of  taste  may  be  applied,  by  interposing  them 
in  a  middle  station  between  the  pleasures  of  sense,  and  those  of  pure 
intellect.  We  were  not  designed  to  grovel  always  among  objects  so 
low  as  the  former;  nor  are  we  capable  of  dwelling  constantly  in  so 
high  a  region  as  the  latter.  The  pleasures  of  taste  refresh  the 
mind  after  the  toils  of  the  intellect,  and  the  labours  of  abstiac! 
study;  and  they  gradually  raise  it  above  the  attachments  of  bense, 
and  prepare  it  for  the  enjoyments  of  virtue. 

So  consonant  is  t^is  to  experience,  that  in  the  education  of  youth, 
no  object,  has  in  every  age  appe.ued  more  important  to  wise  men, 


lect.  i.]  INTRODUCTION.  18 

tnan  to  tincture  them  early  with  a  relish  for  the  entertainments  of 
taste.  The  transition  is  commonly  made  with  ease  from  these  to 
the  discharge  of  the  higher  and  more  important  duties  of  life. 
Good  hopes  may  be  entertained  of  those  whose  minds  have  this  libe- 
ral and  elegant  turn.  It  is  favourable  to  many  virtues.  Where- 
as to  be  entirely  devoid  of  relish  for  eloquence,  poetry,  or  any  of 
the  fine  arts,  is  justly  construed  to  be  an  unpromising  symptom  of 
youth ;  and  raises  suspicions  of  their  being  prone  to  low  gratifica- 
tions, or  destined  to  drudge  in  the  more  vulgar  and  illiberal  pursuits 
of  life. 

There  are  indeed  few  good  dispositions  of  any  kind  with  which 
the  improvement  of  taste  is  not  more  or  less  connected.  A  culti- 
vated taste  increases  sensibility  to  all  the  tender  and  humane  pas- 
sions, by  giving  them  frequent  exercise ;  while  it  tends  to  weaken 
the  more  violent  and  fierce  emotions. 


■  Ingenuas  didicisse  fideliter  artes 


Emollit  mores,  nee  sinit  esse  feros.' 

The  elevated  sentiments  and  high  examples  which  poetry,  elo- 
quence, and  history,  are  often  bringing  under  our  view,  naturally  tend 
to  nourish  in  our  minds  public  spirit,  the  love  of  glory,  contempt  of 
external  fortune,  and  the  admiration  of  what  is  truly  illustrious  and 
great. 

I  will  not  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  the  improvement  of  taste  and  of 
virtue  is  the  same ;  or  that  they  may  always  be  expected  to  co-exist 
in  an  equal  degree.  More  powerful  correctives  than  taste  can  apply, 
are  necessary  for  reforming  the  corrupt  propensities  which  too  fre- 
quently prevail  among  mankind.  Elegant  speculations  are  some- 
times found  to  float  on  the  surface  of  the  mind,  while  bad  passions 
possess  the  interior  regions  of  the  heart.  At  the  same  time  this 
c*nnot  but  be  admitted,  that  the  exercise  of  taste  is,  in  its  native 
tendency,  moral  and  purifying.  From  reading  the  most  admired 
productions  of  genius,  whether  in  poetry  or  prose,  almost  every  one 
rises  with  some  good  impressions  left  on  his  mind ;  and  though  these 
may  not  always  be  durable,  they  are  at  least  to  be  ranked  among 
the  means  of  disposing  the  heart  to  virtue.  One  thing  is  certain, 
and  I  shall  hereafter  have  occasion  to  illustrate  it  more  fully,  that, 
without  possessing  the  virtuous  affections  in  a  strong  degree,  no  man 
can  attain  eminence  in  the  sublime  parts  of  eloquence.  He  mus* 
feel  what  a  good  man  feels,  if  he  expects  greatly  to  move,  or  to  in- 
terest mankind.  They  are  the  ardent  sentiments  of  honour,  vir- 
tue, magnanimity,  and  public  spirit,  that  only  can  kindle  that  fire  ol 
genius,  and  call  up  into  the  mind  those  high  ideas,  which  attract  the 
admiration  of  ages ;  and  if  this  spirit  be  necessary  to  produce  the 
most  distinguished  efforts  of  eloquence,  it  must  be  necessary  also  to 
our  relishing  them  with  proper  taste  and  feeling. 

On  these  general  topics  I  shall  dwell  no  longer;  but  proceed  di- 
rectly to  the  consideration  of  the  subjects  which  are  to  employ  the 

*  These  polish'd  arts  have  humaniz'd  mankind, 
Soften'd  the  rude,  and  calm'd  the  boist'rous  mind 


16  INTRODUCTION.  [lect.ii 

following  Lectures.  They  divide  themselves  into  five  parts.  First, 
some  introductory  dissertations  on  the  nature  of  taste,  and  upon  the 
sources  of  its  pleasures.  Secondly,  the  consideration  of  language 
Thirdly,  of  style:  Fourthly  of  eloquence,  properly  so  called,  or 
public  speaking  in  its  different  kinds.  Lastly,  a  critical  examination 
of  the  most  distinguished  species  of  composition,  both  in  prose  and 
verse. 


LECTURE  II. 


TASTE. 

The  nature  of  the  present  undertaking  leads  me  to  begin  with 
some  inquiries  concerning  taste,  as  it  is  this  faculty  which  is  always 
aDpealed  to,  in  disquisitions  concerning  the  merit  of  discourse  in 
writing. 

There  are  few  subjects  on  which  men  talk  more  loosely  and  indis- 
tinctly than  on  taste ;  few  which  it  is  more  difficult  to  explain  with 
precision ;  and  none  which  in  this  course  of  Lectures  will  appear 
more  dry  or  abstract.  What  I  have  to  say  on  the  subject,  shall  be 
in  the  following  order.  I  shall  first  explain  the  Nature  of  Taste  as  a 
power  or  faculty  in  the  human  mind.  I  shall  next  consider,  how  far 
it  is  an  improveable  faculty.  I  shall  show  the  sources  of  its  im- 
provement, and  the  characters  of  taste  in  its  nx.st  perfect  state.  I 
shall  then  examine  the  various  fluctuations  to  which  it  is  liable,  ai  c* 
inquire  whether  there  be  any  standard  to  which  we  can  bring  the 
different  tastes  of  men,  in  order  to  distinguish  the  corrupted  from 
the  true. 

Taste  may  be  defined  "The  power  of  receiving  pleasure  from 
the  beauties  of  nature  and  of  art."  The  first  question  that  occurs 
concerning  it  is,  whether  it  is  to  be  considered  as  an  internal  sense, 
or  as  an  exertion  of  reason  ?  Reason  is  a  very  general  term ;  but 
if  we  understand  by  it,  that  power  of  the  mind  which  in  speculative 
matters  discovers  truth,  and  in  practical  matters  judges  of  the  fitness 
of  means  to  an  end,  I  apprehend  the  question  may  be  easily  answer- 
ec.  For  nothing  can  be  more  clear,  than  that  taste  is  not  resolv- 
able into  any  such  operation  of  reason.  It  is  not  merely  through  a 
discovery  of  the  understanding  or  a  deduction  of  argument,  that  the 
mind  receives  pleasure  from  a  beautiful  prospect  or  a  fine  poem. 
Such  objects  often  strike  us  intuitively,  and  make  a  strong  impres- 
sion, when  we  are  unable  to  assign  the  reasons  of  our  being  pleased. 
They  sometimes  strike  in  the  same  manner  the  philosopher  and  the 
peasant ;  the  boy  and  the  man.  Hence  the  faculty  by  which  we  relish 
such  beauties,  seems  more  nearly  allied  to  a  feeling  of  sense,  than  to 
a  process  of  the  understanding ;  and  accordingly  from  an  external 
sense  it  has  borrowed  its  name  ;  that  sense  by  which  we  receive 
and  distinguish  the  pleasures  of  food,  having,  in  several  languages, 


lect.  n.j  TASTE.  17 

given  rise  to  the  word  taste,  in  the  metaphorical  meaning  under 
which  we  now  consider  it.  However,  as  in  all  subjects  which  regard 
Lbe  operations  of  the  mind,  the  inaccurate  use  of  words  is  to  be 
carefully  avoided,  it  must  not  be  inferred  from  what  I  have  said, 
that  reason  is  entirely  excluded  from  the  exertions  of  taste.  Though 
taste,  beyond  doubt,  be  ultimately  founded  on  a  certain  natural  and 
instinctive  sensibility  to  beauty,  yet  reason,  as  I  shall  show  hereafter, 
assists  taste  in  many  of  its  operations,  and  serves  to  enlarge  its  power.  * 

Taste,  in  the  sense  in  which  I  have  explained  it,  is- a  faculty  com- 
mon in  some  degree  to  all  men.  Nothing  that  belongs  to  human 
nature  is  more  general  than  the  relish  of  beauty  of  one  kind  or 
other;  of  what  is  orderly,  proportioned,  grand,  harmonious,  new, 
or  sprightly.  In  children,  the  rudiments  of  taste  discover  them- 
selves very  early  in  a  thousand  instances ;  in  their  fondness  for  regu- 
lar bodies,  their  admiration  of  pictures  and  statues,  and  imitations 
of  all  kinds ;  and  their  strong  attachment  to  whatever  is  new  or 
marvellous.  The  most  ignorant  peasants  are  delighted  with  ballads 
and  tales,  and  are  struck  with  the  beautiful  appearance  of  nature  in 
the  earth  and  heavens.  Even  in  the  deserts  of  America,  where 
human  nature  shows  itself  in  its  most  uncultivated  state,  the  savages 
have  their  ornaments  of  dress,  their  war  and  their  death  songs,  their 
harangues  and  their  orators.  We  must  therefore  conclude  the 
principles  of  taste  to  be  deeply  founded  in  the  human  mind.  It  is 
no  less  essential  to  man  to  have  some  discernment  of  beauty,  than  it 
is  to  possess  the  attributes  of  reason  and  of  speech. f 

But  although  none  be  wholly  devoid  of  this  faculty,  yet  the  de- 
grees in  which  it  is  possessed  are  widely  different.  In  some  men  only 
the  feeble  glimmerings  of  taste  appear;  the  beauties  which  they  re- 
lish are  of  the  coarsest  kind ;  and  of  these  they  have  but  a  weak  and 

*  See  Dr.  Gerard's  Essay  on  Taste  : — D'Alembert'u  Reflections  on  the  use  and  abuse 
of  Philosophy  in  matters  which  relate  to  Taste  : — Reflections  Critiques  sur  la  Poesie  et 
sur  la  Peinture,  tome  ii.  ch.  22-  31  : — Elements  of  Criticism,  chap.  25  : — Mr.  Hume's 
Essay  on  the  Standard  of  Taste  : — Introduction  to  the  Essay  on  the  Sublime  and  Beau- 
tiful. 

t  On  the  subject  of  taste,  considered  a^  a  power  or  faculty  of  the  mind,  much  less  is 
to  be  found  among-  the  ancient,  than  among  the  modern  rhetorical  and  critical  wri- 
ters. The  following  remarkable  passage  in  Cicero  serves,  however,  to  show  that  hit 
ideas  on  this  subject  agree  perfectly  with  what  has  been  said  above.  He  is  sneaking 
of  the  beauties  of  style  and  numbers.  "  Illud  autem  nequis  admirerur,  quonam  modo 
hffic  vulgus  imperitorum  in  audiendo  notct ;  cum  in  omni  genere,  turn  in  hoc  ipso,  mag 
na  quaedam  est  vis,  incredibilisque  naturae.  Omnes  enim  tacito  quodam  s«>nsu,  sine 
ulla  arte  auf  ratione,  quae  sint  in  artibus  ac  rationibus  recta  et  prava  dijudicant :  idque 
cum  faciunt  in  picturis,  et  in  signis,  et  in  aliis  operibus,  ad  quorum  intelligentiam  a  na 
tura  minus  habent  instrumenti,  turn  multo  ostendunt  magis  in  verborum,  numerorum 
OTVStunque  judicio  *,  quod  ea  sunt  in  communibus  infixa  sensibus  ;  neque  earum  rerum 
q'iinquam  funditus  natura  voluit  esse  expertem."  Cic.  de  Orat  lib.  iii.  cap.  50.  edit. 
Gruteri. — Quintilian  seems  to  include  taste  (for  which,  in  the  sense  which  we  now  give 
to  that  word,  the  ancients  appear  to  have  had  no  distinct  name)  under  what  he  calls 
judicium.  "Locus  de  judicio,  mea  quidem  opinione  adeo  partibus  hujus  opens  orani 
bus  connectus  ac  mistus  est,  ut  ne  a  sententiis  quidem  aut  verbis  saltern  singulis 
possit  separari-  nee  magis  arte  traditur  quam  gustus  aut  odor. — Ut  contraria 
vitemus  et  communia,  ne  quid  in  eioquendo  corruptum  obscurumque  sit,  referatui 
oportet  ad  sensus  qui  non  docentur."  Institut.  lib.  vi.  cap.  3.  edit.  Obrechti. 
C  3 


18  TASTE. 


^lect.h 


confused  impression ;  while  in  others,  taste  rises  to  an  acute  dis* 
rernmentj  and  a  lively  enjoyment  of  the  most  refined  beauties.  In 
general,  we  may  observe,  that  in  the  powers  and  pleasures  of  taste, 
there  is  a  more  remarkable  inequality  among  men  than  is  usually 
found  in  point  of  common  sense,  reason,  and  judgment.  The  con 
stitution  of  our  nature  in  this,  as  in  all  other  respects,  discovers  ad 
mirable  wisdom.  In  the  distribution  of  those  talents  which  are  ne- 
cessary for  man's  well-being,  nature  hath  made  less  distinction  among 
her  children.  But  in  the  distribution  of  those  which  belong  only 
to  the  ornamental  part  of  life,  she  hath  bestowed  her  favours  with 
more  frugality.  She  hath  both  sown  the  seeds  more  sparingly ;  and 
rendered  a  higher  culture  requisite  for  bringing  them  to  perfection. 

This  inequality  of  taste  among  men  is  owing,  without  doubt,  in 
part,  to  the  different  frame  of  their  natures;  to  nicer  organs,  and 
finer  internal  powers,  with  which  some  are  endowed  beyond  others. 
But,  if  it  be  owing  in  part  to  nature,  it  is  owing  to  education  and 
culture  still  more.  The  illustration  of  this  leads  to  my  next  remark 
on  this  subject,  that  taste  is  a  most  improveable  faculty,  if  there  be 
any  such  in  human  nature;  a  remark  which  gives  great  encourage- 
ment to  such  a  course  of  study  as  we  are  now  proposing  to  pursue. 
Of  the  truth  of  this  assertion  we  may  easily  be  convinced,  by  only 
reflecting  on  that  immense  superiority  which  education  and  improve- 
ment give  to  civilized,  above  barbarous  nations,  in  refinement  of 
taste;  and  on  the  superiority  which  they  give  in  the  same  nation  to 
those  who  have  studied  the  liberal  arts,  above  the  rude  and  untaught 
vulgar.  The  difference  is  so  great,  that  there  is  perhaps  no  one  par- 
ticular in  which  these  two  classes  of  men  are  so  far  removed  from  each 
other,  as  in  respect  of  the  powers  and  the  pleasures  of  taste :  and 
assuredly  for  this  difference  no  other  general  cause  can  be  assigned, 
but  culture  and  education.  I  shall  now  proceed  to  show  what  the 
means  are  by  which  taste  becomes  so  remarkably  susceptible  of 
cultivation  and  progress. 

Reflect  first  upon  that  great  law  of  our  nature,  that  exercise  is  the 
chief  source  of  improvement  in  all  our  faculties.  This  holds  both 
in  our  bodily,  and  in  our  mental  powers.  It  holds  even  in  our  exter- 
nal senses,  although  these  be  less  the  subject  of  cultivation  than 
any  of  our  other  faculties.  We  see  how  acute  the  senses  become 
in  persons  whose  trade  or  business  leads  to  nice  exertions  of  them. 
Touch,  for  instance,  becomes  infinitely  more  exquisite  in  men  whose 
employment  requires  them  to  examine  the  polish  of  bodies,  than  it 
is  in  others.  They  who  deal  in  microscopical  observations,  or  are 
accustomed  to  engrave  on  precious  stones,  acquire  surprising  accu- 
racy of  sight  in  discerning  the  minutest  objects;  and  practice  in 
attending  to  different  flavours  and  tastes  of  liquors,  wonderfully  im- 
proves the  power  of  distinguishing  them,  and  of  tracing  their  com- 
position. Placing  internal  taste  therefore  on  the  footing  of  a  simple 
sense,  it  cannot  be  doubted  that  frequent  exercise,  and  curious  at- 
tention to  its  proper  objects,  must  greatly  heighten  its  power.  Of 
ihis  we  have  one  clear  proof  in  that  part  of  taste,  which  is  called  an 
ear  for  music.     Experience  every  day  shows,  that  nothing  is  mor*» 


lect.  ii.]  TASTE.  15 

improvable.  Only  the  simplest  and  plainest  compositions  are 
relished  at  first;  use  and  practice  extend  our  pleasure;  teach  us  to 
relish  finer  melody,  and  by  degrees  enable  us  to  enter  into  the  intri- 
cate and  compounded  pleasures  of  harmony.  So  an  eye  for  the 
beauties  of  painting  is  never  all  at  once  acquired.  It  is  gradually 
formed  by  being  conversant  among  pictures,  and  studying  the  work? 
of  the  best  mae  ters. 

Precisely  in  the  same  manner,  with  respect  to  the  beauty  of  com- 
position and  discourse,  attention  to  the  most  approved  models,  study 
of  the  best  authors,  comparisons  of  lower  and  higher  degrees  of  the 
same  beauties,  operate  towards  the  refinement  of  taste.  When  one 
is  only  beginning  his  acquaintance  with  works  of  genius,  the  senti- 
ment which  attends  them  is  obscure  and  confused.  He  cannot  point 
out  the  several  excellencies  or  blemishes  of  a  performance  which  he 
peruses;  he  is  at  a  loss  on  what  to  rest  his  judgment:  all  that  can 
be  expected  is,  that  he  should  tell  in  general  whether  he  be  pleased 
or  not.  But  allow  him  more  experience  in  works  of  this  kind,  and 
his  taste  becomes  by  degrees  more  exact  and  enlightened.  He 
begins  to  perceive  not  only  the  character  of  the  whole,  but  the 
beauties  and  defects  of  each  part;  and  is  able  to  describe  the  pecu- 
liar qualities  which  he  praises  or  blames.  The  mist  dissipates  which 
seemed  formerly  to  hang  over  the  object ;  and  he  can  at  length  pro- 
nounce firmly,  and  without  hesitation,  concerning  it.  Thus  "in  taste, 
considered  as  mere  sensibility,  exercise  opens  a  great  source  of  im- 
provement. 

But  although  taste  be  ultimately  founded  on  sensibility,  it  must 
not  be  considered  as  instinctive  sensibility  alone.  Reason  and  good 
sense,  as  I  before  hinted,  have  so  extensive  an  influence  on  all  the 
operations  and  decisions  of  taste,  that  a  thorough  good  taste  may 
well  be  considered  as  a  power  compounded  of  natural  sensibility  to 
beauty,  and  of  improved  understanding.  In  order  to  be  satisfied  of 
this,  let  us  observe,  that  the  greater  part  of  the  productions  of  genius 
are  no  other  than  imitations  of  nature ;  representations  of  the  cha- 
racters, actions,  or  manners  of  men.  The  pleasure  we  receive  from 
such  imitations  or  representations  is  founded  on  mere  taste :  but  to 
judge  whether  they  be  properly  executed,  belongs  to  the  under 
standing,  which  compares  the  copy  witli  the  original. 

In  reading,  for  instance,  such  a  poem  as  the  iEneid,  a  great  part 
of  our  plpasure  arises  from  the  plan  or  story  being  well  conducted, 
and  all  the  parts  joined  together  with  probability  and  due  connexion ; 
from  the  characters  being  taken  from  nature,  the  sentiments  neing 
suited  to  the  characters,  and  the  style  to  the  sentiments.  The 
pleasure  which  arises  from  a  poem  so  conducted,  is  felt  or  enjoyed 
by  taste  as  an  internal  sense;  but  the  discovery  of  this  conduct  in 
the  poem  is  owing  to  reason;  and  the  more  that  reason  enables  us 
to  discover  such  propriety  in  the  conduct,  the  greater  will  be  our 
pleasure.  We  are  pleased,  through  our  natural  sense  of  beauty 
Reason  shows  us  why,  and  upon  what  grounds,  we  are  pleased. 
Wherever  'in  works  of  taste,  any  resemblance  to  nature  is  aimed  at* 
wherever  there  is  any  reference  of  parts  to  a  whole,  or  of  means  to 


20  TASTE.  [lect.  it 

an  end,  as  there  is  indeed  in  almost  every  writing  and  discourse, 
there  the  understanding  must  always  have  a  great  part  to  act. 

Here  then  is  a  wide  field  for  reason's  exerting  its  powers  in  relation 
to  the  objects  of  taste,  particularly  with  respect  to  composition, 
and  works  of  genius;  and  hence  arises  a  second  and  a  very  consi- 
derable source  of  the  improvement  of  taste,  from  the  application  of 
reason  and  good  sense  to  such  productions  of  genius.  Spurious 
beauties,  such  as  unnatural  characters,  forced  sentiments,  affected 
style,  may  please  for  a  little;  but  they  please  only  because  their 
opposition  to  nature  and  to  good  sense  has  not  been  examined,  or 
attended  to.  Once  show  how  nature  might  have  been  more  justly 
imitated  or  represented ;  how  the  writer  might  have  managed  his 
subject  to  greater  advantage ;  the  illusion  will  presently  be  dissipat- 
ed, and  these  false  beauties  will  please  no  more. 

From  these  two  sources  then,  first,  the  frequent  exercise  of  taste, 
and  next  the  application  of  good  sense  and  reason  to  the  objects  of 
taste,  taste  as  a  power  of  the  mind  receives  its  improvement.  In 
its  perfect  state,  it  is  undoubtedly  the  result  both  of  nature  and  of 
art.  It  supposes  our  natural  sense  of  beauty  to  be  refined  by  fre- 
quent attention  to  the  most  beautiful  objects,  and  at  the  same  time 
to  be  guided  and  improved  by  the  light  of  the  understanding. 

I  must  be  allowed  to  add,  that  as  a  sound  head,  so  likewise  a  good 
heart,  is  a  very  material  requisite  to  just  taste.  The  moral  beauties 
are  not  only  themselves  superior  to  all  others,  but  they  exert  an 
influence,  either  more  near,  or  more  remote,  on  a  great  variety  of 
other  objects  of  taste.  Wherever  the  affections,  characters,  or  ac- 
tions of  men  are  concerned,  (and  these  certainly  afford  the  noblest 
subjects  to  genius,)  there  can  be  neither  any  just  or  affecting  des- 
cription of  them,  nor  any  thorough  feeling  of  the  beauty  of  that 
description,  without  our  possessing  the  virtuous  affections.  He  whose 
heart  is  indelicate  or  hard,  he  who  has  no  admiration  of  what  is  truly 
noble  or  praise-worthy,  nor  the  prober  sympathetic  sense  of  what  is 
soft  and  tender,  must  have  a  very  imperfect  relish  of  the  liighes* 
beauties  of  eloquence  and  poetry. 

The  characters  of  taste,  when  brought  to  its  most  improved  state, 
are  all  reducible  to  two,  Delicacy  and  Correctness. 

Delicacy  of  taste  respects  principally  the  perfection  of  that  natu 
ral  sensibility  on  which  taste  is  founded.  It  implies  those  finer  or 
gansor  powers  which  enahle  us  to  discover  beauties  that  lie  hid  from 
a  vulvar  eye.  One  may  have  strong  sensibility,  and  yet  be  deficient 
in  delicate  taste.  He  may  be  deeply  impressed  by  such  beauties  as 
he  perceives;  but  he  perceives  only  what  is  in  some  degree  coarse, 
what  is  hold  and  palpable ;  while  chaster  and  simpler  ornaments 
escape  his  notice.  In  this  state,  taste  generally  exists  among  rude 
and  unrefined  nations.  But  a  person  ol  delicate  taste  both  feels 
strongly,  and  feels  accurately.  He  sees  distinctions  and  differences 
where  others  see  none  ;  the  most  latent  beauty  does  not  escape  him, 
and  he  is  sensible  ol  the  smallest  blemish.  Delicacy  ol  taste  is 
judged  of  by  the  same  marks  that  we  use  in  judging  of  the  delicacy 
of  an  external  sense.     As  the  goodness  of  the  palate  is  not  tried  b* 


lect.  ii.]  TASTE.  21 

strong  flavours,  but  by  a  mixture  of  ingredients,  where,  notwithstand- 
ing the  confusion,  we  remain  sensible  of  each  :  in  like  manner  deli- 
cacy of  internal  taste  appears,  by  a  quick  and  lively  sensibility  to  its 
finest,  most  compounded,  or  most  latent  objects. 

Correctness  of  taste  respects  chiefly  the  improvement  which  that 
faculty  receives  through  its  connexion  with  the  understanding.  & 
man  of  correct  taste  is  one  who  is  never  imposed  on  by  counter. ut 
beauties  ;  who  carries  always  in  his  mind  that  standard  of  good  sense 
which  he  employs  in  judging  of  every  thing.  He  estimates  with 
propriety  the  comparative  merit  of  the  several  beauties  which  he 
meets  with  in  any  work  of  genius-;  refers  them  to  their  proper  classes ; 
assigns  the  principles,  as  far  as  they  can  be  traced,  whence  their 
power  of  pleasing  flows  ,  and  is  pleased  himself  precisely  in  that 
degree  in  which  he  ought,  and  no  more. 

It  is  true,  that  these  two  qualities  of  taste,  delicacy  and  correct- 
ness, mutually  imply  each  other.  No  taste  can  be  exquisitely  deli- 
cate without  being  correct ;  nor  can  be  thoroughly  correct  without 
being  delicate.  But  still  a  predominancy  of  one  or  other  quality  in 
the  mixture  is  often  visible.  The  power  of  delicacy  is  chiefly  seen 
in  discerning  the  true  merit  of  a  work ;  the  power  of  correctness,  in 
rejecting  false  pretensions  to  merit.  Delicacy  leans  more  to  feeling ; 
correctness,  more  to  reason  and  judgment.  The  former  is  more 
the  gift  of  nature  ;  the  latter,  more  the  product  of  culture  and  art. 
Among  the  ancient  critics,  Longinus  possessed  most  delicacy ;  Aris- 
totle, most  correctness.  Among  the  moderns,  Mr.  Addison  is  a  high 
examnle  of  delicate  taste  ;  Dean  Swift,  had  he  written  on  the  subject 
of  criticism,  would  perhaps  have  afforded  the  example  of  a  correct 
one. 

Having  viewed  taste  in  its  most  improved  and  perfect  state,  I 
come  next  to  consider  its  deviations  from  that  state,  the  fluctuations 
and  changes  to  which  it  is  liable  ;  and  to  inquire  whether,  in  the 
midst  of  these,  there  be  any  means  of  distinguishing  a  true  from  a 
corrupted  taste.  This  brings  us  to  the  most  difficult  part  of  our 
task.  For  it  must  be  acknowledged,  that  no  principle  of  the  human 
mind  is,  in  its  operations,  more  fluctuating  and  capricious  than  taste. 
Its  variations  have  been  so  great  and  frequent,  as  to  create  a  suspicion 
with  some,  of  its  being  merely  arbitrary ;  grounded  on  no  foundation 
ascertainable  by  no  standard,  but  wholly  dependent  on  changing 
fancy  ;  the  consequence  of  which  would  be,  that  all  studies  or  regu- 
lar :i:quiries  concerning  the  objects  of  taste  were  vain.  In  architec- 
ture, the  Grecian  models  were  long  esteemed  the  most  perfect.  In 
succeeding  ages,  the  Gothic  architecture  alone  prevailed,  and  after- 
wards theGrecian  taste  revived  in  all  its  vigour,  and  engrossed  the 
public  admiration.  In  eloquence  and  poetry,  the  Asiatics  at  no  time 
relished  any  thing  but  what  was  full  of  ornament,  and  splendid  in  a 
degree  that  we  should  denominate  gawdy;  whilst  the  Greeks  admir- 
eef  only  chaste  and  simple  beauties,  and  despised  the  Asiatic  osten 
tation.  In  our  own  country,  how  many  writings  that  were  greatl} 
extolled  two  01  three  centuries  agio,  are  now  fallen  into  entire  disre- 
pute aitu  ./onvion  '      Without  £i»i»g  uaeK  LO  remote  lUstaiicts 


22  TASTE.  [lect.  ii 

very  different  is  the  taste  of  poetry  which  prevails  in  Great  Britain 
now,  from  what  prevailed  there  no  longer  ago  than  the  reign  of  kins> 
Charles  II.  which  the  authors  too  of  that  time  deemed  an  Augustan 
age  :  when  nothing  was  in  vogue  but  an  affected  brilliancy  of  wit; 
when  the  simple  majesty  of  Milton  was  overlooked,  and  Paradise 
Lost  almost  entirely  unknown  ;  when  Cowley's  laboured  and  unna 
tural  conceits  were  admired  as  the  very  quintessence  of  genius  5 
Waller's  gay  sprightliness  was  mistaken  for  the  tender  spirit  of  lot  e 
poetry  ;  and  such  writers  as  Suckling  and  Etheridge  were  held  in 
esteem  for  dramatic  composition  ? 

The  question  is,  what  conclusion  we  are  to  form  from  such  instan- 
ces as  these?  Is  there  any  thing  that  can  be  called  a  standard  of 
taste,  by  appealing  to  which  we  may  distinguish  between  a  good 
and  a  bad  taste?  Or,  is  there  in  truth  no  such  distinction  ?  and  are 
we  to  hold  that,  according  to  the  proverb,  there  is  no  disputing  of 
tastes  ;  but  that  whatever  pleases  is  right,  for  that  reason  that  it  does 
please  ?  This  is  the  question,  and  a  very  nice  and  subtle  one  it  is, 
which  we  are  now  to  discuss. 

I  begin  by  observing,  that  if  there  be  no  such  thing  as  any  standard 
of  taste,  this  consequence  must  immediately  follow,  that  all  taster 
are  equally  good;  a  position,  which,  though  it  may  pass  unnoticed 
in  slight  matters,  and  when  we  speak  of  the  lesser  differences  among 
the  tastes  of  men,  yet  when  we  apply  it  to  the  extremes,  present- 
ly shows  its  absurdity.  For  is  there  any  one  who  will  seriously 
maintain  that  the  taste  of  a  Hottentot  or  a  Laplander  is  as  delicate 
and  as  correct  as  that  of  a  Longinus  or  an  Addison  ?  or,  that  he  can 
be  charged  with  no  defect  or  incapacity  who  thinks  a  common  news- 
writer  as  excellent  an  historian  as  Tacitus  ?  As  it  would  be  held 
downright  extravagance  to  talk  in  this  manner,  we  are  led  unavoid- 
ably to  this  conclusion,  that  there  is  some  foundation  for  the  prefer- 
ence of  one  man's  taste  to  that  of  another;  or,  that  there  is  a  good 
and  a  bad,  a  right  and  a  wrong  in  taste,  as  in  other  things. 

But  to  prevent  mistakes  on  this  subject,  it  is  necessary  to  observe 
next,  that  the  diversity  of  tastes  which  prevails  among  mankind,  does 
not  in  every  case  infer  corruption  of  taste,  or  oblige  us  to  seek  for 
some  standard  in  order  to  determine  who  are  in  the  right.  The 
tastes  of  men  may  differ  very  considerably  as  to  their  object,  and  yet 
none  of  them  be  wrong  One  man  relishes  poetry  most;  another 
takes  pleasure  in  nothingbuthistory.  One  prefers  comedy ;  another, 
tragedy.  One  admires  the  simple  ;  another,  the  ornamented  style. 
The  young  are  amused  with  gay  and  sprightly  compositions.  The 
elderly  are  more  entertained  with  those  of  a  graver  cast.  Some 
nations  delight  in  bold  pictures  of  manners,  and  strong  representations 
of  passion.  Others  incline  to  more  correct  and  regular  elegance 
both  in  description  and  sentiment.  Though  all  differ,  yet  all  pitch 
upon  some  one  beauty  which  peculiarly  suits  their  turn  of  mind; 
and  therefore  no  one  has  a  title  to  condemn  the  rest.  It  is  not  in 
matters  of  taste,  as  in  questions  of  mere  reason,  where  there  is  but 
one  conclusion  that  can  be  true,  and  all  the  rest  are  erroneous. 
Truth,  which  is  the  object  of  reason,  is  one ;  beauty,  which  is  the 


tECT.  ii.]  TASTE.  fc 

object  of  taste,  is  manifold.  Taste,  therefore,  admits  of  latitu;'*  ant 
diversity  of  objects,  in  sufficient  consistency  with  goodness  01  just 
ness  of  taste. 

But  then,  to  explain  this  matter  thoroughly,  I  must  observe  farther 
that  this  admissible  diversity  of  tastes  con  only  have  place  where  the 
objects  of  taste  are  different.  Where  it  is  with  respect  to  the  same 
object  that  men  disagree,  when  one  condemns  that  as  ugly,  which 
another  admires  as  highly  beautiful;  then  it  is  no  longer  diversity, 
but  direct  opposition  of  taste  that  takes  place;  and  therefore  one 
must  be  in  the  right,  and  another  in  the  wrong,  unless  that  absurd 
paradox  were  allowed  to  hold,  that  all  tastes  are  equally  good  and 
true.  One  man  prefers  Virgil  to  Homer.  Suppose  that  I,  on  the 
other  hand,  admire  Homer  more  than  Virgil.  I  have  as  yet  no  rea- 
son to  say  that  our  tastes  are  contradictory.  The  other  person  is 
more  struck  with  the  elegance  and  tenderness  which  are  the  charac 
teristics  of  Virgil;  I,  with  the  simplicity  and  fire  of  Homer.  As 
long  as  neither  of  us  deny  that  both  Homer  and  Virgil  have  great 
beauties,  our  difference  falls  within  the  compass  of  that  diversity  of 
tastes,  which  I  have  showed  to  be  natural  and  allowable.  But  if  the 
other  man  shall  assert  that  Homer  has  no  beauties  whatever;  that 
he  holds  him  to  be  a  dull  and  spiritless  writer,  and  that  he  would  as 
soon  peruse  any  old  legend  of  knight-errantry  as  the  Iliad  ;  then  I 
exclaim,  that  my  antagonist  either  is  void  of  all  taste,  or  that  his  taste 
Is  corrupted  in  a  miserable  degree;  and  I  appeal  to  whatever  I  think 
the  standard  of  taste,  to  show  him  that  he  is  in  the  wrong. 

What  that  standard  is  to  which,  in  such  opposition  of  tastes,  we 
are  obliged  to  have  recourse,  remains  to  be  traced.  A  standard  pro- 
perly signifies,  that  which  is  of  such  undoubted  authority  as  to  be 
the  test  of  other  things  of  the  same  kind.  Thus  a  standard  weight 
or  measure,  is  that  which  is  appointed  by  law  to  regulate  all  other- 
measures  and  weights.  Thus  the  court  is  said  to  be  the  standard  of 
good  breeding;  and  the  scripture  of  theological  truth. 

When  we  say  that  nature  is  the  standard  of  taste,  we  lay  down  a 
principle  very  true  and  just,  as  far  as  it  can  be  applied.  There  is  ne 
doubt,  that  in  all  cases  where  an  imitation  is  intended  of  some  object 
that  exists  in  nature,  as  in  representing  human  characters  or  actions, 
conformity  to  nature  affords  a  full  and  distinct  criterion  of  what  is 
truly  beautiful.  Reason  hath  in  such  cases  full  scope  for  exerting 
its  authority;  for  approving  or  condemning;  by  comparing  the  copy 
with  the  original.  But  there  are  innumerable  cases  in  which  his 
rile  cannot  be  at  all  applied  ;  and  conformity  to  nature,  is  an  ex- 
pression frequently  used,  without  any  distinct  or  determinate  mean- 
ing. We  must  therefore  search  for  somewhat  that  can  be  rendered 
more  clear  and  precise,  to  be  the  standard  of  taste. 

Taste,  as  I  before  explained  it,  is  ultimately  founded  on  an  inter- 
nal sense  of  beauty,  Avhich  is  natural  to  men,  and  which,  in  its 
application  to  particular  objects,  is  capable  of  being  guided  and  en- 
lightened by  reason.  Now  were  there  any  one  person  who  possessed 
in  full  perfection  all  the  powers  of  human  nature,  whose  internal 
senses  were  in  every  instance  exquisite  and  just,  and  whose  reason 


24  TASTE.  [lect.    I. 

was  unerring  and  sure,  the  determinations  of  such  a  person  con- 
cerning beauty,  would,  beyond  doubt,  be  a  perfect  standard  for  the 
taste  of  all  others.  Wherever  their  taste  differed  from  his,  it  could 
be  imputed  only  to  some  imperfection  in  their  natural  powers.  But 
as  there  is  no  such  living  standard,  no  one  person  to  whom  all  man- 
kind will  allow  such  submission  to  be  due,  what  is  there  of  sufficient 
authority  to  be  the  standard  of  the  various  and  opposite  tastes  cf  men  ? 
Most  certainly  there  is  nothing  but  the  taste,  as  far  as  it  can  be 
gathered,  of  buman  nature.  That  which  men  concur  the  most  in 
admiring,  must  be  held  to  be  beautiful.  His  taste  must  be  esteemed 
just  and  true,  which  coincides  with  the  general  sentiments  of  men. 
In  this  standard  we  must  rest.  To  the  sense  of  mankind  the  ulti- 
mate appeal  must  ever  lie,  in  all  works  of  taste.  If  any  one  should 
maintain  that  sugar  was  bitter  and  tobacco  was  sweet,  no  reasonings 
could  avail  to  prove  it.  The  taste  of  such  a  person  would  infallibly 
be  held  to  be  diseased,  merely  because  it  differed  so  widely  fro> 
the  taste  of  the  species  to  which  he  belongs.  In  like  manner,  with 
regard  to  the  objects  of  sentiment  or  internal  taste,  the  common 
feelings  of  men  carry  the  same  authority,  and  have  a  title  to  regulate 
the  taste  of  every  individual. 

But  have  we  then,  it  will  be  said,  no  other  criterion  of  whit  is 
beautiful,  than  the  approbation  of  the  majority  ?  Must  we  collect 
the  voices  of  others,  before  wTe  form  an}1,  judgment  for  ourselves,  of 
what  deserves  applause  in  eloquence  or  poetry?  By  no  means-, 
there  are  principles  of  reason  and  sound  judgment  which  can  be  ap- 
plied to  matters  of  taste,  as  well  as  to  the  subjects  of  science  and 
philosophy.  He  who  admires  or  censures  any  work  of  genius,  is 
always  ready,  if  his  taste  be  in  any  degree  improved,  to  assign  some 
reasons  for  his  decision.  He  appeals  to  principles,  and  points  out 
the  grounds  on  which  he  proceeds.  Taste  is  a  sort  of  compound 
power,  in  which  the  light  of  the  understanding  always  mingles,  more 
or  less,  with  the  feelings  of  sentiment. 

But  though  reason  can  cany  us  a  certain  length  in  judging  con- 
cerning works  of  taste,  it  is  not  to  be  forgotten  that  the  ultimate 
conclusions  to  which  our  reasonings  lead,  refer  at  last  to  sense  and 
perception.  We  may  speculate  and  argue  concerning  propriety  01 
conduct  in  a  tragedy,  or  an  epic  poem.  Just  reasonings  on  the  sub- 
ject will  correct  the  caprice  of  unenlightened  taste,  and  establish 
principles  forjudging  of  what  deserves  praise.  But,  at  the  same 
time,  these  reasonings  appeal  always  in  the  last  resort,  to  feeling. 
The  foundation  upon  which  they  rest,  is  what  has  been  found  from 
experience  to  please  mankind  universally.  Upon  this  ground  we 
prefer  a  simple  and  natural,  to  an  artificial  and  affected  style;  a 
regular  and  well  connected  story,  to  loose  and  scattered  narratives: 
a  catastrophe  which  is  tender  and  pathetic,  to  one  which  leaves  us 
unmoved.  It  is  from  consulting  our  own  imagination  and  heart,  and 
from  attending  to  the  feelings  of  others,  that  any  principles  are 
formed  which  acquire  authority  in  matters  of  taste.* 

r  Th*  chrjerr&ce  between  the  authors  who  found  the  standard  of  taste  upon  the 
coutmotj    feehrgs   of  human  mature   ascertained  bv   general    ipprobation,  and   tho*t 


xjsct.il]  TASTE.  25 

When  we  refer  to  the  concurring  sentimeu  ts  of  men  as  the  ultimate 
taste  of  what  is  to  be  accounted  beautiful  in  the  arts,  this  is  to  be 
always  understood  of  men  placed  in  such  situations  as  are  favourable 
to  the  proper  exertions  of  taste.  Every  one  must  perceive,  that 
among  rude  and  uncivilized  nations,  and  during  the  ages  of  igno- 
rance and  darkness,  any  loose  notions  that  are  entertained  concern- 
ing such  subjects,  carry  no  authority.  In  those  states  of  society, 
taste  has  no  materials  on  which  to  operate.  It  is  either  totally  sup- 
pressed, or  appears  in  its  lower  and  most  imperfect  form.  We  refer 
to  the  sentiments  of  mankind  in  polished  and  nourishing  nations; 
when  arts  are  cultivated  and  manners  refined;  when  works  of  genius 
are  subjected  to  free  discussion,  and  taste  is  improved  by  science 
and  philosophy. 

Even  among  nations,  at  such  a  period  of  society,  I  admit  that 
accidental  causes  may  occasionally  warp  the  proper  operations  of 
taste ;  sometimes  the  taste  of  religion,  sometimes  the  form  of  go- 
vernment, may  for  a  while  pervert;  a  licentious  court  may  intro- 
duce a  taste  for  false  ornaments,  and  dissolute  writings.  The  usage 
of  one  admired  genius  may  procure  approbation  for  his  faults,  and 
even  render  them  fashionable.  Sometimes  envy  may  have  power 
to  bear  down,  for  a  little,  productions  of  great  merit;  while  popular 
humour,  or  party  spirit,  may,  at  other  times,  exalt  to  a  high,  though 
short-lived  reputation,  what  little  deserved  it.  But  though  such 
casual  circumstances  give  the  appearance  of  caprice  to  the  judg- 
ments of  taste,  that  appearance  is  easily  corrected.  In  the  course  of 
time,  the  genuine  taste  of  human  nature  never  fails  to  disclose  itself 
and  to  gain  the  ascendant  over  any  fantastic  and  corrupted  modes  of 
taste  which  may  chance  to  have  been  introduced.  These  may  have 
currency  for  a  while,  and  mislead  superficial  judges ;  but  being  sub- 
jected to  examination,  by  degrees  they  pass  away ;  while  that  alone 
remains  which  is  founded  on  sound  reason,  and  the  native  feelings 
of  men. 

I  by  no  means  pretend,  that  there  is  any  standard  of  taste,  to  which, 
in  everv  particular  instance,  ve  can  resort  for  clear  and  immediate 
determination.      Where,  indued,  is  such  a  standard  to  be  found  for 

who  found  it  upon  established  principles  which  can  be  ascertained  by  reason,  is 
more  an  apparent  than  a  real  difference.  Like  many  other  literary  controversies, 
it  turns  chielly  on  modes  of  expression.  For  they  who  lay  the  greatest  stress  on 
sentiment  and  feeling,  make  no  scruple  of  applying  argument  and  reason  to  mat- 
ters of  taste.  They  appeal,  like  other  writers,  to  established  principles,  in  judging 
of  ftse  excellencies  of  eloquence  or  poetry  ;  and  plainly  show,  that  the  general  ap- 
probation to  which  they  ultima^'ly  recur,  is  an  approbation  resulting  from  discus- 
sion as  well  as  from  sentiment.  They,  on  the  other  hand,  who,  in  order  to  vindi- 
cate taste  from  any  suspicion  of  being  arbitrary,  maintain  that  it  is  ascertainable 
bv  the  standard  of  reason,  admit,  nevertheless,  that  what  pleases  universally,  must, 
on  that  account,  be  held  to  be  truly  beautiful  ;  and  that  no  rules  or  conclus.ons  con- 
cerning objects  of  taste,  can  have  any  just  authority,  if  they  be  found  to  co.itradict 
the  general  sentiments  of  men.  These  two  systems,  therefore,  differ  in  reality 
Very  little  from  one  another.  Sentiment  and  reason  enter  into  both  ;  and  by  al 
lowing  to  each  of  these  powers  its  due  place,  both  systems  may  be  rendered  con 
si*tf-nt.  Accordingly,  it  is  in  this  light  that  I  have  endeavoured  to  pto  ,e  the  sub 
ect. 

D  4 


26  TASTE.  [~lect.  n 

deciding  any  of  those  great  controversies  in  reason  and  philosophy; 
which  perpetually  divide  mankind  ?  In  the  present  case,  there  was 
plainly  no  occasion  for  any  such  strict  and  absolute  provision  to  be 
made.  In  order  to  judge  of  what  is  morally  good  or  evil,  of  what 
man  ought,  or  ought  not  in  duty  to  do,  it  was  fit  that  the  means  of 
clear  and  precise  determination  should  be  afforded  us.  But  to  as- 
certain in  every  case  with  the  utmost  exactness  what  is  beautiful  or 
elegant,  was  not  at  all  necessary  to  the  happiness  of  man.  And 
therefore  some  diversity  in  feeling  was  here  allowed  to  take  place; 
and  room  was  left  for  discussion  and  debate,  concerning  the  degree 
of  approbation  to  which  any  work  of  genius  is  entitled. 

The  conclusion,  which  it  is  sufficient  for  us  to  rest  upon,  is,  that 
taste  is  far  from  being  an  arbitrary  principle,  which  is  subject  to  the 
fancy  of  every  individual,  and  which  admits  of  no  criterion  for  deter- 
mining whether  it  be  false  or  true.  Its  foundation  is  the  same  in  all 
human  minds.  It  is  built  upon  sentiments  and  perceptions  which 
belong  to  our  nature;  and  which,  in  general,  operate  with  the  same 
uniformity  as  our  other  intellectual  principles.  When  these  senti 
ments  are  perverted  by  ignorance  and  prejudice,  they  are  capable 
of  being  rectified  by  reason.  Their  sound  and  natural  state  is  ulti- 
mately determined,  by  comparing  them  with  the  general  taste  oi 
mankind.  Let  men  declaim  as  much  as  they  please  concerning  the 
capiice  and  the  uncertainty  of  taste,  it  is  found,  by  experience,  that 
there  are  beauties,  which,  if  they  be  displayed  in  a  proper  light, 
have  power  to  command  lasting  and  generaladmiration.  In  every 
composition,  what  interests  the  imagination,  and  touches  the  heart, 
pleases  all  ages  and  all  nations.  There  is  a  certain  string  to  which, 
when  properly  struck,  the  human  heart  is  so  made  as  to  answer. 

Hence  the  universal  testimony  which  the  most  improved  nations 
of  the  earth  have  conspired,  throughout  a  long  tract  of  ages,  to  give 
to  some  few  works  of  genius;  such  as  the  Iliad  of  Homer,  and  the 
JEneid  of  Virgil.  Hence  the  authority  which  such  works  have  ac- 
quired, as  standards  in  some  degree  of  poetical  composition;  since 
from  them  we  are  enabled  to  collect  what  the  sense  of  mankind  is, 
concerning  those  beauties  which  give  them  the  highest  pleasure,  and 
which  therefore  poetry  ought  to  exhibit.  Authority  or  prejudice 
may,  in  one  age  or  country,  give  a  temporary  reputation  to  an  in- 
different poet  or  a  bad  artist;  but  when  foreigners,  or  when  poste- 
rity examine  his  works,  his  faults  are  discerned,  and  the  genuine 
taste  of  human  nature  appears.  "  Opinionum  commenta  delet  dies ; 
."naturae  judicia  confirmat."  Time  overthrows  the  illusions  of 
opinion,  but  establishes  the  decisions  of  nature. 


i  26  a  } 


QUESTIONS. 


Whv  does  the  nature  of  the  present 
undertaking  lead  our  author  to  begin 
with  some  inquiries  concerning  taste  ? 
Of  it  what  is  observed  ?  In  what  order 
does  our  author  propose  to  treat  it? 
How  may  it  be  defined  ?  What  is  the 
first  question  that  occurs  concerning  it ? 
Of  reason,  what  is  observed?  From 
what  does  it  appear  evident  that  taste 
is  not  resolvable  into  any  operation  of 
reason ;  and  why  ?  How  is  this  farther 
illustrated,  and  what  follows?  Why 
must  it  not  be  inferred,  from  what  has 
been  said,  that  reason  is  entirely  ex- 
cluded from  the  exertions  of  taste  ? 
Though  taste  is  ultimately  founded  on 
a  certain  natural  sensibility  to  beauty, 
yet  what  follows  ?  How  does  it  appear 
that  taste,  in  the  sense  in  which  it  has 
been  explained,  is  a  faculty  common  to 
all  men  ?  How  is  this  remark  illustra- 
ted? What  must  we  therefore  con- 
clude ;  and  why  ?  Though  none  are 
entirely  devoid  of  this  faculty,  yet  how 
does  it  appear  that  the  degrees  in  which 
ii,  is  possessed  are  widely  different  ? 
What  may  we  in  general  observe  ? 
How  does  it  appear  that  the  constitu- 
tion of  our  nature,  in  this  respect,  dis- 
covers admirable  wisdom  ?  To  what  is 
this  inequality  of  taste  among  men,  to 
be,  in  part,  attributed  ?  To  what  is  it 
more  particularly  owing?  To  what 
does  the  illustration  of  this  lead  ?  Of 
this  remark,  what  is  observed  I  How 
may  we  be  convinced  of  the  truth  of 
this  assertion  ?  Of  this  difference,  what 
is  observed  ?  What  is  one  of  the  first 
laws  of  our  nature?  How  is  this  illus- 
trated? What,  therefore,  cannot  be 
doubted?  In  what  have  wre  a  clear 
proof  of  this  remark ;  and  how  is  this 
illustrated  ?  Of  the  beauty  of  composi- 
tion and  discourse,  what  is  observed? 
How  does  it  appear,  that  when  a  per- 
son commences  an  acquaintance  with 
works  of  genius,  the  sentiment  which 
attends  them  is  obscure  and  confused  ? 
What  will  be  the  effect  of  greater  ex- 
perience in  wTorks  of  this  kind  ?  How  is 
this  further  illustrated?  As  taste  is 
ultimately  founded  on  sensibility,  why 
may  we  not  consider  its  foundation  in 
instinctive  sensibility  alone  ?  How  may 
we  be  satisfied  that  a  good  taste  con- 
sists in  natural  sensibility  to  beauty, 


and  an  improved  understanding?  How 
is  this  illustrated  from  the  reading  of 
the  JBneid  of  Virgil  ?  Ir  proportion  to 
what  Avill  our  pleasure  be  increased  ? 
Through  what  are  we  pleased ;  and 
what  does  reason  show  us?  Where 
must  the  understanding  always  have 
a  greater  part  to  act  ?  For  wdiat  is  there 
here  a  wide  field ;  in  what  particular ; 
and  hence  what  arises?  Of  spurious 
beauties,  &c.  what  is  observed  ?  How 
may  the  illusion  be.  dissipated  ?  From 
what  does  taste  receive  its  improve- 
ment ?  Of  what  is  it  the  result  in  its 
perfect  state;  and  wdiat  does  it  sup- 
pose ?  What  remark  is  added  ?  Of 
moral  beauties  what  is  observed  ?  How 
is  this  illustrated  ?  Persons  of  wdiat  de- 
scription must,  necessarily,  have  a  very 
imperfect  relish  of  the  highest  beauties 
of  eloquence  and  poetry  ?  To  what  art 
the  characters  of  taste,  in  its  most  per 
feet  state,  reducible  ?  What  does  deli- 
cacy of  taste  respect ;  and  what  does  it 
imply?  How  is  this  illustrated  ?  Where 
does  taste  in  this  state  exist  ?  Of  a  per- 
son of  delicate  taste,  what  is  observed  ? 
How  is  it  illustrated,  that  delicacy  of 
taste  is  judged  of  by  the  same  marks 
by  which  we  judge  of  the  delicacy  of 
an  external  sense  ?  What  does  correct- 
ness of  taste  principally  respect  ?  What 
is  remarked  of  a  man  of  correct  taste  ? 
How  does  it  appear  that  delicacy  and 
correctness  mutually  imply  each  other? 
In  what  is  the  power  of  delicacy  chiefly 
seen  ;  and  of  correctness  ?  To  wdiat  do 
they  respectively  lean  ?  Of  what  is  the 
former  the  gift ;  and  how  is  the  latter 
produced?  What  examples  of  illustra- 
tion are  given  from  the  ancients;  and 
from  the  moderns? 

Having  viewed  taste  in  its  most  iru 
proved  state,  what  does  our  author 
next  consider  ?  Why  does  this  bring  us 
to  the  most  difficult  part  of  our  task  ? 
Of  what  have  the  greatness  and  fre- 
quency of  its  variations  created  suspi- 
cions ?  How  is  this  illustrated  from  the 
architecture,  eloquence,  and  poetry  of 
the  ancients ;  and  the  taste  for  poetry 
among  the  moderns  ?  What  interroga- 
tions follow  ?  If  there  is  no  standard  of 
taste,  what  consequence  follows?  Of 
this  posj'  ^on  what  is  remarked  ?  How 
is  this  Vlstrated?  As  it  would  be  con- 


26  6 


QUESTIONS. 


[UJT. 


eidered  extravagant  to  talk  in  this 
manner,  to  what  conclusion  are  we 
unavoidably  led  ?  To  prevent  misl  1 1  kes, 
what  observation  is  it  necessary,  in  the 
next  place,  to  make  ?  Hoav  does  it  ap- 
pear that  the  tastes  of  men  may  differ 
very  considerably  in  their  object,  and 
still  none  of  them  be  wrong  ?  Thou«h 
all  differ,  yet  upon  what  do  all  pitch? 
How  is  this  illustrated  ?  To  explain  this 
matter  thoroughly,  what  observation  is 
necessary?  When  docs  this  disagree- 
ment amone  men  cease  to  be  diversity 
of  taste;  and  what  follows?  How  is 
this  remark  illustrated  from  the  pre- 
ference given  by  some  men  to  Homer, 
and  by  others  to  Virgil'?  How  long 
may  our  diversity  be  considered  natu- 
ral and  allowable  ?  What  assertions 
would  induce  us  to  consider  a  man's 
taste  corrupted  in  a  miserable  degree ; 
and  to  what  do  we  appeal  ?  What  do 
we,  on  any  subject,  consider  a  sta  i  idard  ? 
What  illustrations  are  eiven?  How  far 
may  nature  be  regarded  as  a  standard? 
In  what  cases  does  nature  afford  a  full 
and  distinct  criterion  of  what  is  truly 
beautiful?  Of  reason,  in  such  cases, 
what  is  said  ?  Why  are  we  sometimes 
under  the  necessity  of  searching  for 
something  that  can  be  rendered  more 
clear  and  precise  than  nature,  as  a 
standard  of  taste?  On.  what  is  taste 
ultimately  founded?  A  person  of  what 
description  might  be  considered  a  stand- 
ard of  taste  ?  But  as  there  is  no  such 
living  standard,  what  follows;  and 
hence  what  is  the  ultimate  standard  ? 
How  is  this  illustrated  ?  How  would 
the  taste  of  such  a  person  be  regarded  ; 
why;  and  what  follows?  What  inter- 
rogations follow;  and  to  them  what 
reply  is  given;  and  why?  Of  the  ad- 
mirer or  censurer  of  any  work  of 
genius,  what  remark  follows  ?  Though 
reason  can  carry  us  a  certain  length  in 
judging  concerning  works  of  taste,  }ret 
what  must  not  be  forgotten  ?  Concern- 
ing what  may  we  speculate  and  argue  ? 
On  this  subject,  what  will  just  reason- 
ing correct?  At  the  same  time,  to  what 
do  these  reasonings  always  appeal  ? 
On  what  foundation  do  they  rest? 
JJpon  this  ground,  what  receives  our 
preference  ?  How  are  principles  which 


acquire  authority  in  maiter?  of  taste 
formed?  Why  is  it  necessary  that  the 
person  to  whom  we  refer  as  a  standard, 
should  live  under  circumstances  fa- 
vourable to  the  exertions  of  taste?  To 
the  inhabitants  of  what  nations  do  we, 
therefore,  refer?  Among  nations  at  such 
a  period  of  society,  in  what  different 
ways  may  the  proper  operations  of 
taste  be  warped  ?  What  appearance 
do  such  casual  circumstances  give  to 
the  judgments  of  taste?  How  is  that 
appearance  easily  corrected  ?  Of  the 
currency  winch  these  may  have  for  a 
while,  what  is  remarked?  To  what 
does  our  author  not  pretend  ;  and  what 
illustral  ive  remarks  follow  ?  What  con- 
clusion is  given,  upon  which  it  is  suf- 
ficient for  us  to  rest  ?  Of  its  foundation 
what  is  remarked ;  and  upon  what  is 
it  built?  When  these  sentiments  are 
perverted  by  ignorance  and  prejudice- 
how  may  they  be  rectified?  How  ia 
their  sound  and  natural  state  ultimate- 
ly determined?  Though  men  declaim 
concernintr  the  caprice  of  taste,  yet 
wl  lat  is  found  by  experience  to  be  true? 
How  is  this  illustrated;  and  hence 
what  follows?  For  an  indifferent  poet, 
or  a  bad  artist,  what  may  authority  or 
prejudice  do?  But  when  will  his  faults 
be  discerned,  and  the  genuine  taste  of 
mankind  appear? 


ANALYSIS. 

1.  Introductory  remarks. 

2.  The  definition  of  Taste. 

3.  The  nature  of  Taste. 

a.  Instinct  and  Reason. 
B.  Its  universality. 

c.  Its  degrees. 

d.  Sources  of  its  improvement 

a.  Exercise. 

b.  Reason  and  good  sense. 

c.  Morals. 

4.  The  characters  of  Taste. 
a.  Delicacy. 
B.  Correctness. 

5.  The  variations  of  Taste. 

6.  The  standard  of  Taste. 

A.  Arguments  for,  and   against  o 
standard. 

B.  ,T,'ie  conclusion. 


(27) 

L.ECTUHE  III. 


CRITICISM... .GENIUS....PLEASURES  OF  TASTE.... 
SUBLIMITY  IN  OBJECTS. 

Taste,  criticism,  and  genius,  are  words  currently  employed,  With- 
out distinct  ideas  annexed  to  them.  In  beginning  a  course  of  lec- 
tures where  such  words  must  often  occur,  it  is  necessary  to  ascertain 
their  meaning  with  some  precision.  Having  in  the  last  lecture  treat- 
ed of  taste,  I  proceed  to  explain  the  nature  and  foundation  of  criti- 
cism. True  criticism  is  the  application  of  taste  and  of  good  sense 
to  the  several  fine  arts.  The  object  which  it  proposes  is,  to  distin- 
guish what  is  beautiful  and  what  is  faulty  in  every  performance  ; 
from  particular  instances  to  ascend  to  general  principles ;  and  so  to 
form  rules  or  conclusions  concerning  the  several  kinds  of  beauty  in 
works  of  genius. 

The  rules  of  criticism  are  not  formed  by  any  induction  a  priori, 
as  it  is  called ;  that  is,  they  are  not  formed  by  a  train  of  abstract 
reasoning,  independent  of  facts  and  observations.  Criticism  is  an 
art  founded  wholly  on  experience;  on  the  observations  of  such  beau- 
ties as  have  come  nearest  to  the  standard  which  I  before  established ; 
that  is,  of  such  beauties  as  have  been  found  to  please  mankind  most 
generally.  For  example:  Aristotle's  rules  concerning  the  unity  of 
action  in  dramatic  and  epic  composition,  were  not  rules  first  disco 
vered  by  logical  reasoning, and  then  applied  to  poetry ;  but  they 
were  drawn  from  the  practice  of  Homer  and  Sophocles:  they  were 
founded  upon  observing  the  superior  pleasure  which  we  receive  from 
the  relation  of  an  action  which  is  one  and  entire,  beyond  what  we 
receive  from  the  relation  of  scattered  and  unconnected  facts.  Such 
observations  taking  their  rise  at  first  from  feeling  and  experience, 
were  found  on  examination  to  be  so  consonant  to  reason  and  to  the 
principles  of  human  nature,  as  to  pass  into  established  rules,  and  to 
be  conveniently  applied  for  judging  of  the  excellency  of  any  per- 
formance This  is  the  most  natural  account  of  the  origin  of  criti- 
cism. 

A  masterly  genius,  it  is  true,  will  of  himself,  untaught,  compose 
in  such  a  manner  as  shall  be  agreeable  to  the  most  material  rules  of 
criticism,  for  as  these  rules  are  fourded  in  nature,  nature  will  often 
suggest  them  in  practi  ;o.  Homer,  it  is  more  than  probable,  was  ac- 
quainted with  no  systems  of  the  art  of  poetry.  Guided  by  genius 
alone,  he  composed  in  verse  a  regular  story,  which  all  posterity  has 
admired.  But  this  is  no  argument  against  the  usefulness  of  criticism 
as  an  art.  For  as  nc  human  genius  is  perfect,  there  is  no  writer  but 
may  receive  assistance  from  critical  observations  upon  the  beauties 
and  faults  of  those  who  have  gone  before  him.  No  obsprvations  or 
rules  can  indeed  supply  the  defect  of  genius,  or  inspire  it  where  it 


»8  CRITICISM.  [lect.  hi. 

is  wanting.  But  they  may  often  direct  it  into  its  proper  channel, 
they  may  correct  its  extravagances,  and  point  out  to  it  the  most  just 
.and  proper  imitation  of  nature.  Critical  rules  are  designed  chiefly 
.o  show  the  faults  that  ought  to  be  avoided.  To  nature  we  must  be 
ndebted  for  the  production  of  eminent  beauties. 

From  what  has  been  said,  we  are  enabled  to  form  a  judgment  con- 
cerning those  complaints  which  it  has  long  been  fashionable  for  petty 
authors  to  make  against  critics  and  criticism.  Critics  have  been 
represented  as  the  great  abridgers  of  the  native  liberty  of  genius;  as 
the  imposers  of  unnatural  shackles  and  bonds  upon  writers,  from 
whose  cruel  persecution  they  must  fly  to  the  public,  and  implore  its 
protection.  Such  supplicatory  prefaces  are  not  calculated  to  give 
yery  favourable  ideas  of  the  genius  of  the  author  For  every  good 
'vriier  will  be  pleased  to  have  his  work  examined  by  the  principles 
jf  sound  understanding  and  true  taste.  The  declamations  against 
criticism  commonly  proceed  upon  this  supposition,  that  critics  are 
such  as  judge  by  rule,  not  by  feeling ;  which  is  so  far  from  being 
true,  that  they  who  judge  after  this  manner  are  pedants,  not  critics. 
For  all  the  rules  of  genuine  criticism  I  have  shown  to  be  ultimately 
founded  on  feeling;  and  taste  and  feeling  are  necessary  to  guide  us 
in  the  application  of  these  rules  to  every  particular  instance.  As 
there  is  nothing  in  which  all  sorts  of  persons  more  readily  affect  to 
be  judges  than  in  works  of  taste,  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  number 
of  incompetent  critics  will  always  be  great.  But  this  affords  no 
more  foundation  for  a  general  invective  against  criticism,  than  the 
lumber  of  bad  philosophers  or  reasoners  affords  against  reason  and 
philosophy. 

An  objection  more  plausible  maybe  formed  against  criticism,  from 
the  applause  that  some  performances  have  received  from  the  public, 
which,  when  accurately  considered,  are  found  to  contradict  the 
rules  established  by  criticism.  Now,  according  to  the  principles 
laid  down  in  the  last  lecture,  the  public  is  the  supreme  judge  to 
whom  the  last  appeal  must  be  made  in  every  work  of  taste;  as  the 
standard  of  taste  is  founded  on  the  sentiments  that  are  natural  and 
common  to  all  men.  But  with  respect  to  this,  we  are  to  observe,  that 
the  sense  of  the  public  is  often  too  hastily  judged  of.  The  genuine 
public  taste  does  not  always  appear  in  the  first  applause  given  upon 
the  publication  of  any  new  work.  There  are  both  a  great  vulgar 
and  a  small,  apt  to  be  catched  and  dazzled  by  very  superficial  beaa- 
ties,  the  admiration  of  which  in  a  little  time  passes  away;  and  some- 
times a  writer  may  acquire  great  temporary  reputation  merely  by 
his  compliance  with  the  passions  or  prejudices,  with  the  party -spirit 
or  superstitious  notions  that  may  chance  to  rule  for  a  time  almost  a 
whole  nation.  In  such  cases,  though  the  public  may  seem  to  praise, 
true  criticism  may  with  reason  condemn  ;  and  it  will  in  progress  of 
time  gain  the  ascendant:  for  the  judgment  of  true  criticism,  and  the 
voice  of  the  public,  when  once  become  unprejudiced  and  dispassion- 
ate, will  ever  coincide  at  last. 

Instances,  I  admit,  there  are  of  some  works  that  contain  gros? 
transgressions  of  the  laws  of  criticism,  acquiring,  nevertheless,  a 


lect.  in.]  GENIUS.  29 

general,  and  even  a  lasting  admiration.  Such  are  the  plays  of 
Shakspeare,  which,  considered  as  dramatic  poems,  are  irregular  in 
the  highest  degree.  But  then  we  are  to  remark,  thai  ihey  have 
gained  the  public  admiration,  not  by  their  being  irregular,  not  by 
their  transgressions  of  the  rules  of  art,  but  in  spite  of  such  trans- 
gressions. They  possess  other  beauties  which  are  conformable  to 
just  rules;  and  the  force  of  these  beauties  has  been  so  great  as  to 
overpower  all  censure,  and  to  give  the  public  a  degree  of  satisfaction 
superior  to  the  disgust  arising  from  their  blemishes.  Shakspeare 
pleases,  not  by  his  bringing  the  transactions  of  many  years  into  one 
play ;  not  by  his  grotesque  mixtures  of  tragedy  and  comedy  in  one 
piece,  nor  by  the  strained  thoughts  and  affected  witticisms,  which  he 
someti  mes  employs.  These  we  consider  as  blemishes,  and  impute 
them  to  the  grossness  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived.  But  he  pleases 
by  his  animated  and  masterly  representations  of  characters,  by  the 
liveliness  of  his  descriptions,  the  force  of  his  sentiments,  and  his 
possessing,  beyond  all  writers,  the  natural  language  of  passion: 
Beauties  which  true  criticism  no  less  teaches  us  to  place  in  the 
highest  rank,  than  nature  teaches  us  to  feel. 

I  proceed  next  to  explain  the  meaning  of  another  term,  which 
there  will  be  frequent  occasion  to  employ  in  these  lectures ;  that  is, 
genius. 

Taste  and  genius  are  two  words  frequently  joined  together;  and 
therefore  by  inaccurate  thinkers,  confounded.  They  signify,  how 
ever,  two  quite  different  things.  The  difference  between  them  can 
be  clearly  pointed  out ;  and  it  is  of  importance  to  remember  it. 
Taste  consists  in  the  power  of  judging ;  genius,  in  the  power  of 
executing.  One  may  have  a  considerable  degree  of  taste  in  poetry, 
eloquence,  or  any  of  the  fine  arts,  who  has  little  or  hardly  any  genius 
for  composition  or  execution  in  any  of  these  arts:  but  genius  cannot 
be  found  without  including  taste  also.  Genius,  therefore,  deserves 
to  be  considered  as  a  higher  power  of  the  mind  than  taste.  Genius 
always  imports  something  inventive  or  creative ;  which  does  not  rest 
in  mere  sensibility  to  beauty  where  it  is  perceived,  but  which  can, 
moreover,  produce  new  beauties,  and  exhibit  them  in  such  a  manner 
as  strongly  to  impress  the  minds  of  others.  Refined  taste  forms  a 
good  critic ;  but  genius  is  farther  necessary  to  form  the  poet,  or  the 
orator. 

It  is  proper  also  to  observe,  that  genius  is  a  word,  which,  in  com- 
mon acceptation,  extends  much  farther  than  to  the  objects  of  taste. 
It  is  used  to  signify  that  talent  or  aptitude  which  we  receive  from 
nature,  for  excelling  in  any  one  thing  whatever.  Thus  we  e.peak  of 
a  genius  for  mathematics,  as  well  as  a  genius  for  poetry;  of  a  genius 
for  war,  for  politics,  or  for  any  mechanical  employment. 

This  talent  or  aptitude  for  excelling  in  some  one  particular,  is,  I 
have  said,  what  we  receive  from  nature.  By  art  and  study,  no  doubt, 
it  may  be  greatly  improved ;  but  by  them  alone  it  cannot  be  acquir- 
ed. As  genius  is  a  higher  faculty  than  taste,  it  is  ever,  according  to 
the  usual  frugality  of  nature,  more  limited  in  the  sphere  of  its  opera- 
tions.    It  is  not  uncommon  to  meet  with  persons  who  have  an  excel- 


3C  PLEASURES  OF  TASTE.  [lect    m. 

lent  taste  in  several  of  the  polite  arts,  such  as  music,  poetry,  painting, 
and  eloquence,  altogether:  but,  to  find  one  who  is  an  excellent  per 
former  in  all  these  arts,  is  much  more  rare;  or  rather,  indeed,  such 
an  one  is  not  to  be  looked  for.  A  sort  of  universal  genius,  or  one 
who  is  equally  and  indifferently  turned  towards  several  different  pro- 
fessions and  arts,  is  not  likely  to  excel  in  any.  Although  there  may 
be  some  few  exceptions,  yet  in  general  it  holds,  that  when  the  bent 
of  the  mind  is  wholly  directed  towards  some  one  object,  exclusive  in  a 
manner  of  others,  there  is  the  fairest  prospect  of  eminence  in  that, 
whatever  it  be.  The  rays  must  converge  to  a  point,  in  order  to 
glow  intensely.  This  remark  I  here  choose  to  make,  on  account  of 
its  great  importance  to  young  people;  in  leading  them  to  examine 
with  care,  and  to  pursue  with  ardour,  the  current  and  pointing  of 
nature  towards  those  exertions  of  genius  in  which  they  are  most 
likely  to  excel. 

A  genius  for  any  of  the  fine  arts,  as  I  before  observed,  always  sup- 
poses taste ;  and  it  is  clear,  that  the  improvement  of  taste  will  serve 
both  to  forward  and  to  correct  the  operations  of  genius.  In  propor- 
tion as  the  taste  of  a  poet,  or  orator,  becomes  more  refined  with  re- 
spect to  the  beauties  of  composition,  it  will  certainly  assist  him  to 
produce  the  more  finished  beauties  in  his  work.  Genius,  however, 
in  a  poet  or  orator,  may  sometimes  exist  in  a  higher  degree  than 
taste;  that  is,  genius  may  be  bold  and  strong,  when  taste  is  neither 
very  delicate,  nor  very  cerrect.  This  is  often  the  case  in  the  infan 
cy  of  arts ;  a  period,  when  genius  frequently  exerts  itself  with  great 
vigour,  and  executes  with  much  warmth ;  while  taste,  which  requires 
experience,  and  improves  by  slower  degrees,  hath  not  yet  attained 
to  its  full  growth.  Homer  and  Shakspeare  are  proofs  of  what  I  now 
assert ;  in  whose  admirable  writings  are  found  instances  of  rudeness 
and  indelicacy,  which  the  more  refined  taste  of  later  writers,  who 
had  far  inferior  genius  to  them,  would  have  taught  them  to  avoid. 
As  all  human  perfection  is  limited,  this  may  very  probably  be  the 
law  of  our  nature,  that  it  is  not  given  to  one  man  to  execute  with 
vigour  and  fire,  and,  at  the  same  time,  to  attend  to  all  the  lesser  and 
more  refined  graces  that  belong  to  the  exact  perfection  of  his  work: 
while, on  theotherhand,  a  thorough  taste  for  those  inferior  graces  is 
for  the  most  part,  accompanied  with  a  diminution  of  sublimity  and 
force. 

Having  thus  explained  the  nature  of  taste,  the  nature  and  impor- 
tance of  criticism,  and  the  distinction  between  taste  and  genius; 
I  am  now  to  consider  the  sources  of  the  pleasures  of  taste.  Here 
opens  a  very  extensive  field ;  no  less  than  all  the  pleasures  of  the 
imagination,  as  they  are  commonly  called,  whether  afforded  us  by 
natural  objects,  or  by  the  imitations  and  descriptions  of  them. 
But  it  is  not  necessary  to  the  purpose  of  my  lectures,  that  all  these 
should  be  examined  ful'y ;  the  pleasure  which  we  receive  from 
discourse,  or  writing,  being  the  main  object  of  them.  All  that  I 
propose  is  to  give  some  openings  into  the  pleasures  of  taste  in 
general ;  and  to  insist  more  particularly  upon  sublimity  and  beauty 


lect.  in.]  PLEASURES  OF  TASTE.  31 

We  are  far  from  having  yet  attained  to  any  system  concerning 
this  subject.  Mr.  Addison  was  the  first  who  attempted  a  regular  in- 
quiiy,  in  his  Essay  on  the  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination,  published  In 
the  sixth  volume  of  the  Spectator.  He  has  reduced  these  pleasures 
under  three  heads, — beauty,  grandeur,  and  nove'lty.  His  specula- 
tions on  this  subject,  if  not  exceedingly  profound,  are,  however,  very 
beautiful  and  entertaining;  and  he  has  the  merit  of  having  opened 
a  track,  which  was  before  unbeaten.  The  advances  made  since  his 
time  in  this  curious  part  of  philosophical  criticism,  are  not  very 
considerable ;  though  some  ingenious  writers  have  pursued  the  sub- 
ject. This  is  owing,  doubtless,  to  that  thinness  and  subtilty  which 
are  found  to  be  properties  of  all  the  feelings  of  taste.  They  are 
engaging  objects  ;  but  when  we  would  lay  firm  nold  of  them,  and 
subject  them  to  a  regular  discussion,  they  are  always  ready  to  elude 
our  grasp.  It  is  difficult  to  make  a  full  enumeration  of  the  several 
objects  that  give  pleasure  to  taste  :  it  is  more  difficult  to  define  all 
those  which  have  been  discovered,  and  to  reduce  them  under  pro- 
per classes  ;  and,  when  we  would  go  farther,  and  investigate  the  effi 
cient  causes'  of  the  pleasure  which  we  receive  from  such  objects, 
here",  above  all,  we  find  ourselves  at  a  loss.  For  instance  ;  we  all 
learn  by  experience,  that  certain  figures  of  bodies  appear  to  us 
more  beautiful  than  others.  On  inquiring  farther,  we  find  that  the 
reac'darity  of  some  figures,  and  the  graceful  variety  of  others,  are 
the  foundation  of  the  beauty  which  we  discern  in  them ;  but  when 
we  attempt  to  go  a  step  beyond  this,  and  inquire  what  is  the  cause 
of  regularity  and  variety  producing  in  our  minds  the  sensation  of 
beauty,  any  reason  we  can  assign  is  extremely  imperfect.  These 
first  principles  of  internal  sensation,  nature  seems  to  have  covered 
with  an  impenetrable  veil. 

It  is  some  comfort,  however,  that  although  the  efficient  cause  be 
obscure,  the  final  cause  of  those  sensations  lies  in  many  cases  more 
open :  and,  in  entering  on  this  subject,  we  cannot  avoid  taking  notice 
of  the  strong  impression  which  the  powers  of  taste  and  imagina- 
tion are  calculated  to  give  us  of  the  benignity  of  our  Creator.  By 
endowing  us  with  such  powers,  he  hath  widely  enlarged  the  sphere 
of  the  pleasure  of  human  life ;  and  those,  too,  of  a  kind  the  most 
pure  and  innocent.  The  necessary  purposes  of  life  might  have 
beer,  abundantly  answered,  though  our  senses  of  seeing  and  hearing 
had  only  served  to  distinguish  external  objects,  without  conveying 
to  us  any  of  those  refined  and  delicate  sensations  of  beauty  and  gran- 
deur, with  which  we  are  now  so  much  delighted.  This  additional 
embellishment  and  glory,  which  for  promoting  our  entertainment, 
the  Author  of  nature  hath  poured  forth  upon  his  works,  is  one  stri- 
king testimony,  among  many  others,  of  benevolence  and  goodness. 
This  thought,  which  Mr.  Addison  first  started,  Dr.  Akenside,  in  hi* 
poem  on  the  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination,  has  happily  pursued. 

Not  content 

With  every  food  of  life  to  nourish  man, 
By  kind  illusions  of  the  wondering  sense, 
Thou  mak'st  all  nature  beauty  to  his  eye, 
Or  music  to  his  ear. 


32  SUBLIMITY  IN  OBJECTS.  [lect  ni 

I  shall  begin  with  considering  the  pleasure  which  arises  from  sub 
limity  or  grandeur,  which  I  propose  to  treat  at  some  length ; 
both,  as  this  has  a  character  more  precise  and  distinctly  marked 
than  any  other  of  the  pleasures  of  the  imagination,  and  as  it  coin- 
cides more  directly  with  our  main  subject.  For  the  greater  dis- 
tinctness I  shall,  first,  treat  of  the  grandeur  or  sublimity  of  external 
objects  themselves,  which  will  employ  the  rest  of  this  lecture ;  and, 
afterwards,  of  the  description  of  such  objects,  or,  of  what  is  called 
the  sublime  in  writing,  which  shall  be  the  subject  of  a  following 
*ecture.  I  distinguish  these  two  things  from  one  another,  the  gran- 
deur of  the  objects  themselves  when  they  are  presented  to  the  eye, 
and  the  description  of  that  grandeur  in  discourse  or  writing ;  though 
most  critics,  inaccurately  I  think,  blend  them  together;  and  I  con- 
sider grandeur  and  sublimity  as  terms  synonymous,  or  nearly  so. 
If  there  be  any  distinction  between  them,  it  arises  from  sublimity's 
expressing  grandeur  in  its  highest  degree.* 

It  is  not  easy  to  describe,  in  words,  the  precise  impression  which 
great  and  sublime  objects  make  upon  us,  when  we  behold  them  ;  but 
every  one  has  a  conception  of  it.  It  produces  a  sort  of  internal  ele- 
vation and  expansion  ;  it  raises  the  mind  much  above  its  ordinary 
state,  and  fills  it  with  a  degree  of  wonder  and  astonishment,  which  it 
cannot  well  express.  The  emotion  is  certainly  delightful ;  but  it  is 
altogether  of  the  serious  kind ;  a  degree  of  aw&ilness  and  solem 
nity,  even  approaching  to  severity,  commonly  attends  it  when  at  its 
height ;  very  distinguishable  from  the  more  gay  and  brisk  emotion 
raised  by  beautiful  objects. 

The  simplest  form  of  external  grandeur  appears  in  the  vast  and 
boundless  prospects  presented  to  us  by  nature;  such  as  wide  extend- 
ed plains,  to  which  the  eye  can  see  no  limits  ;  the  firmament  of 
heaven ;  or  the  boundless  expanse  of  the  ocean.  All  vastness  pro- 
duces the  impression  of  sublimity.  It  is  to  be  remarked,  however, 
that  space  extended  in  length,  makes  not  so  strong  an  impression 
as  height  or  depth.  Though  a  boundless  plain  be  a  grand  object, 
yet  a  high  mountain,  to  which  we  look  up,  or  an  awful  precipice  or 
tower  whence  we  look  down  on  the  objects  which  lie  below,  is  still 
more  so.  The  excessive  grandeur  of  the  firmament  arises  from  its 
height  joined  to  its  boundless  extent;  and  that  of  the  ocean,  not 
from  its  extent  alone,  but  from  the  perpetual  motion  and  irresistible 
force  of  that  mass  of  waters.  Wherever  space  is  concerned,  it  is 
clear  that  amplitude  or  greatness  of  extent,  in  one  dimension  or 
other,  is  necessary  to  grandeur.  Remove  all  bounds  from  any  ob- 
ject, and  you  presently  render  it  sublime.  Hence  infinite  space, 
endless  numbers,  and  eternal  duration,  fill  the  mind  with  great  ideas. 

From  this  some  have  imagined,  that  vastness,  or  amplitude  of  ex- 
tent, is  the  foundation  of  all  sublimity.  But  I  cannot  be  of  this 
opinion,  because  many  objects  appear  sublime  which  have  no  rela- 
tion to  space  at  all.  Such,  for  instance,  is  great  loudness  of  sound. 
The  burst  of  thunder  or  of  cannon,  the  roaring  of  winds,  the  shout- 

"  See   a  Philosophical  Inquiry  into  the  Origin  of  our  Ideas  of  the   Sublime  and 
Beautiful : — Dr.  Gerard  on  Taste,  section  ii  : — Elements  of  O'ticism,  chap.  iv. 


lect.  m,J  SUBLIMITY  IN  OBJECTS.  33 

ing  of  multitudes,  the  sound  of  vast  cataracts  of  water,  are  all 
mcontestably  grand  objects.  "I  heard  the  voice  of  a  great  multi- 
tude, as  the  sound  of  many  waters,  and  of  mighty  thunderings, 
"  saying,  Allelujah."  In  general  we  may  observe,  that  great  power 
and  strength  exerted,  always  raise  sublime  ideas  ;  and  perhaps  the 
most  copious  source  of  these  is  derived  from  this  quarter.  Hence 
the  grandeur  of  earthquakes  and  burning  mountains  ;  of  great 
conflagrations ;  of  the  stormy  ocean,  and  overflowing  waters ;  of 
tempests  of  wind;  of  thunder  and  lightning;  and  of  all  the  uncom- 
mon violence  of  the  elements.  Nothing  is  more  sublime  than 
mighty  power  and  strength.  A  stream  that  runs  within  its  banks,  is 
a  beautiful  object,  but  when  it  rushes  down  with  the  impetuosity  and 
noise  of  a  torrent,  it  presently  becomes  a  sublime  one.  From  lions 
and  other  animals  of  strength,  are  drawn  sublime  comparisons  in 
poets.  A  race-horse  is  looked  upon  with  pleasure ;  but  it  is  the 
war-horse, "  whose  neck  is  clothed  with  thunder,"  that  carries  gran- 
deur in  its  idea.  The  engagement  of  two  great  armies,  as  it  is  the 
highest  exertion  of  human  might,  combines  a  variety  of  sources  of 
the  sublime  ;  and  has  accordingly  been  always  considered  as  one  of 
the  most  striking  and  magnificent  spectacles  that  can  be  either  pre- 
sented to  the  eye,  or  exhibited  to  the  imagination  in  description. 

For  the  farther  illustration  of  this  subject,  it  is  proper  to  remark, 
that  all  ideas  of  the  solemn  and  awful  kind,  and  even  bordering  on 
the  terrible,  tend  greatly  to  assist  the  sublime ;  such  as  darkness, 
solitude,  and  silence.  What  are  the  scenes  of  nature  that  elevate 
the  mind  in  the  highest  degree,  and  produce  the  sublime  sensation  ? 
Not  the  gay  landscape,  the  flowery  field,  or  the  flourishing  city ;  but 
the  hoary  mountain,  and  the  solitary  lake  ;  the  aged  forest,  and  the 
torrent  falling  over  the  rock.  Hence, too,  night-scenes  are  common- 
ly the  most  sublime.  The  firmament  when  filled  with  stars,  scattered 
in  such  vast  numbers,  and  with  such  magnificent  profusion,  strikes  the 
imagination  with  a  more  awful  grandeur,  than  when  we  view  it  en- 
lightened by  all  the  splendour  of  the  sun.  The  deep  sound  of  a  great 
bell,  or  the  striking  of  a  great  clock,  are  at  anytime  grand ;  but  when 
heard  amid  the  silence  and  stillness  of  the  night,  they  become  doub- 
ly so.  Darkness  is  very  commonly  applied  for  adding  sublimity  to 
all  our  ideas  of  the  Deity.  "He  maketh  darkness  his  pavilion;  he 
"  dwelleth  in  the  thick  cloud."     So  Milton : 

How  oft,  amidst 

Thick  clouds  and  dark,  does  heaven's  all-ruliug  Sire 

Choose  to  reside,  his  glory  unobscur'd, 

And  with  the  majesty  of  darkness  round 

Circles  his  throne Book  II.  263. 

Observe,  with  how  much  art  Virgil  has  introduced  all  those  ideas  of 
silence,  vacuity,  and  darkness,  when  he  is  going  to  introduce  his  hero 
to  the  infernal  regions,  and  to  disclose  the  secrets  of  the  great  deep. 

Dii,  quibus  imperium  est  animarum,  umbra*que  silentes, 
Et  Chaos,  et  Phlegethon,  loca  nocte  silentia  lat6, 
Sit  mini  fas  audita  loqui ;  sit  numine  vestro 
Pandere  res  alta  terra  et  caligine  mersas. 
(bant  obscuri,  sola  sub  nocte,  per  umbram, 

5 


34  SUBLIMITY  IN  OBJECTS.  [lect.  hi 

Perque  domos  Ditis  vacuos,  et  inania  regna  ; 
Quale  per  incertam  lunam,  sub  luce  maligna 
Est  iter  in  Sylvis * 

These  passages  I  quote  at  present,  not  so  much  as  instances  of  sab- 
lime  writing,  though  in  themselves  they  truly  are  so,  as  to  show,  by 
the  effect  of  them,  that  the  objects  which  they  present  to  us,  belong 
to  the  class  of  sublime  ones. 

Obscurity,  we  are  farther  to  remark,  is  not  unfavourable  to  the  sub- 
lime. Though  it  render  the  object  indistinct,  the  impression,  how- 
ever, may  be  great;  for  as  an  ingenious  author  has  well  observed, 
it  is  one  thing  to  make  an  idea  clear,  and  another  to  make  it  affect- 
ing to  the  imagination  ;  and  the  imagination  may  be  strongly  affect- 
ed, and,  in  fact,  often  is  so,  by  objects  of  which  we  have  no  clear 
conception.  Thus  we  see,  that  almost  all  the  descriptions  given  us 
of  the  appearances  of  supernatural  beings,  carry  some  sublimity, 
though  the  conceptions  which  they  afford  us  be  confused  and  indis- 
tinct. Their  sublimity  arises  from  the  ideas,  which  they  always 
convey,  of  superior  power  and  might,  joined  with  an  awful  obscuri- 
ty. We  may  see  this  fully  exemplified  in  the  following  noble  pas- 
sage of  the  book  of  Job.  "  In  thoughts  from  the  visions  of  the 
'•'night,  when  deep  sleep  falleth  upon  men,  fear  came  upon  me,  and 
"trembling,  which  made  all  my  bones  to  shake.  Then  a  spirit 
"  passed  before  my  face ;  the  hair  of  my  flesh  stood  up :  it  stood 
"still;  but  I  could  not  discern  the  form  thereof;  an  image  was 
"  before  mine  eyes ;  there  was  silence ;  and  I  heard  a  voice — Shall 
"  mortal  man  be  more  just  than  God  ?"t  (Job  iv.  15.)  No  ideas,  it  is 
plain,  are  so  sublime  as  those  taken  from  the  Supreme  Being ;  the 
most  unknown,  but  the  greatest  of  all  objects;  the  infinity  of  whose 
nature,  and  the  eternity  of  whose  duration,  joined  with  the  omnipo- 
tence of  his  power,  though  they  surpass  our  conceptions,  yet  exalt 

•  Ye  subterranean  gods,  whose  awful  s\\3  •• 
The  gliding  ghosts  and  silent  shades  ou*y  : 
O  Chaos,  hear  !  and  Fhlegethon  profound  ! 
Whose  solemn  empire  stretches  wide  around  ; 
Give  me,  ye  great  tremendous  powers  !  to  tell 
Of  scenes  and  wonders  in  the  depths  of  hell ; 
Give  me  your  mighty  secrets  to  display, 
From  those  black  realms  of  darkness  to  the  day.  PITT 

Obscure  they  went ;  through  dreary  shades  that  led 

Along  the  waste  dominions  of  the  dead  ; 

As  wander  travellers  in  woods  by  night, 

By  the  moon's  doubtful  and  malignant  light.  DRVDKN. 

+  The  picture  which  Lucretius  has  drawn  of  the  dominion  of  superstition  ovei 
mankind,  representing  it  as  a  portentous  spectre  showing  its  head  from  the  clouds 
and  dismaying  the  whole  human  race  with  its  countenance,  together  with  the  mag- 
nanimity of  Epicurus  in  raising  himself  up  against  it,  carries  all  the  grandeur  of  a 
sublime,  obscure,  and  awful  image. 

Humana  ante  oculos  foede  cum  vita  jacerct 

In  terris,  oppressa  gravi  sub  religione, 

Qua  caput  coeli  regiouibus  ostendebat, 

Horribili  super  aspectu  mortalibus  instans, 

Primum  Graius  homo  mortales  tollere  contra 

Est  oculos  ausus L&«  »• 


lect.iii.]  SUBLIMITY   IN  OBJECTS.  35 

them  to  the  highest.  In  general,  all  objects  that  are  greatly  raised 
above  us,  or  far  removed  from  us,  either  in  space  or  in  time,  are  apt 
to  strike  us  as  great.  Our  viewing  them,  as  through  the  mist  of 
distance  or  antiquity,  is  favourable  to  the  impressions  of  their  subli- 
mity. 

As  obscurity  so  disorder  too,  is  very  compatible  with  grandeur  ; 
nay,  frequently  heightens  it.  Few  things  that  are  strictly  regular 
and  methodical,  appear  sublime.  We  see  the  limits  on  every  side; 
we  feel  ourselves  confined  ;  there  is  no  room  for  the  mind's  exerting 
any  great  effort.  Exact  proportion  of  parts,  though  it  enters  often 
into  the  beautiful,  is  much  disregarded  in  the  sublime.  A  great 
mass  of  rocks,  thrown  together  by  the  hand  of  nature  with  wildness 
and  confusion,  strike  the  mind  with  more  grandeur,  than  if  they  had 
been  adjusted  to  one  another  with  the  most  accurate  symmetry. 

In  the  feeble  attempts,  which  human  art  can  make  towards  produ- 
cing grand  objects,  (feeble,  I  mean,  in  comparison  with  the  powers 
of  nature,)  greatness  of  dimensions  always  constitutes  a  principal 
part.  No  pile  of  building  can  convey  any  idea  of  sublimity,  unless 
it  be  ample  and  lofty.  There  is  too,  in  architecture,  what  is  called 
greatness  of  manner;  which  seems  chiefly  to  arise,  from  presenting 
the  object  to  us  in  one  full  point  of  view  ;  so  that  it  shall  make  its 
impression  whole,  enth*e,  and  undivided  upon  the  mind.  A  Gothic 
cathedral  raises  ideas  of  grandeur  in  our  minds,  by  its  size,  its  height, 
its  awful  obscurity,  its  strength,  its  antiquity,  and  its  durability. 

There  still  remains  to  be  mentioned  one  class  of  sublime  objects, 
which  may  be  called  the  moral,  or  sentimental  sublime ;  arising 
from  certain  exertions  of  the  human  mind ;  from  certain  affections, 
and  actions,  of  our  fellow-creatures.  These  will  be  found  to  be  all, 
or  chiefly,  of  that  class,  which  comes  under  the  name  of  magnanimi- 
ty or  heroism :  and  they  produce  an  effect  extremely  similar  to 
what  is  produced  by  the  view  of  grand  objects  in  nature;  filling  tbe 
mind  with  admiration,  and  elevating  it  above  itself.  A  noted  in- 
stance of  this,  quoted  by  all  the  French  critics,  is  the  celebrated 
Qu'il  Mount t  of  Corneille,  in  the  tragedy  of  Horace.  In  the  fa- 
mous combat  between  the  Horatii  and  the  Curiatii,  the  old  Iioratius 
being  informed  that  two  of  his  sons  are  slain,  and  that  the  third  had 
betaken  himself  to  flight,  at  first  will  not  believe  the  report;  but  be- 
ing thoroughly  assured  of  the  fact,  is  fired  with  all  the  sentiments  of 
high  honour  and  indignation  at  this  supposed  unworthy  behaviour 
of  his  surviving  son.  He  is  reminded,  that  his  son  stood  alone 
against  three,  and  asked  what  he  wished  him  to  have  done? 
"To  have  died,"  he  answers.  In  the  same  manner  Porus,  *aken 
prisoner  by  Alexander,  after  a  gallant  defence,  and  asked  how 
he  wished  to  be  treated?  answering,  "Like  a  king;"  and  Cae- 
sar chiding  the  pilot  who  was  afraid  to  set  out  with  him  in  the 
storm,  "Quid  times?  Caesarem  vehis;"are  good  instances  of  this 
sentimental  subhme.  Wherever,  in  some  critical  and  high  situation, 
we  oehold  a  man  uncommonly  intrepid,  and  resting  upon  himself; 
superior  to  passion  and  to  fear  ;  animated  by  some  great  principle 


36  SUBLIMITY  IN  OBJECTS.  Llect.iu. 

to  the  contempt  of  popular  opinion,  of  selfish  interest,  of  dangers, 
or  of  death  ;  there  we  are  struck  with  a  sense  of  the  sublime.* 

High  virtue  is  the  most  natural  and  fertile  source  of  this  moral 
sublimity.  However,  on  some  occasions,  where  virtue  either  has 
no  place,  or  is  but  imperfectly  displayed,  yet  if  extraordinary  vigour 
and  force  of  mind  be  discovered,  we  are  not  insensible  to  a  de- 
gree of  grandeur  in  the  character;  and  from  the  splendid  conqueror 
or  the  daring  conspirator,  whom  we  are  far  from  approving,  we 
cannot  withhold  our  admiration.! 

I  have  now  enumerated  a  variety  of  instances,  both  in  inanimate 
objects  and  in  human  life,  wherein  the  sublime  appears.  In  all 
these  instances,  the  emotion  raised  in  us  is  of  the  same  kind,  although 
the  objects  that  produce  the  emotion  be  of  widely  different  kinds. 
A  question  next  arises,  whether  we  are  able  to  discover  some  one 
fundamental  quality  in  which  all  these  different  objects  agree,  and 
which  is  the  cause  of  their  producing  an  emotion  of  the  same  na- 
ture in  our  minds  ?  Various  hypotheses  have  been  formed  concern- 
ing this ;  but,  as  far  as  appears  to  me,  hitherto  unsatisfactory.  Some 
have  imagined  that  amplitude,  or  great  extent,  joined  with  simplici- 
ty, is  either  immediately,  or  remotely,  the  fundamental  quality  of 
whatever  is  sublime ;  but  we  have  seen  that  amplitude  is  confined 
to  one  species  of  sublime  objects,  and  cannot,  without  violent  strain- 

*  The  sublime,  in  natural  and  in  moral  objects,  is  brought  before  us  in  one 
view,  and  compared  together,  in  the  following  beautiful  passage  of  Akenside's 
Pleasures  of  the  Imagination  : 

Look  then  abroad  through  nature  to  the  range 

Of  planets,  suns,  and  adamantine  spheres, 

Wheeling,  unshaken,  thro'  the  void  immense  ; 

And  speak,  O  man!  does  this  capacious  scene, 

With  half  that  kindling  majesty  dilate 

Thy  strong  conception,  as  when  Brutus  rose, 

Refulgent,  from  the  stroke  of  Caesar's  fate, 

Amid  the  crowd  of  patriots  ;  and  his  arm 

Aloft  extending,  like  eternal  Jove, 

When  guilt  brings  down  the  thunder,  call'd  aloud 

On  Tully's  name,  and  shook  his  crimson  steel, 

And  bade  the  father  of  his  country  hail  ? 

For,  lo!  the  tyrant  prostrate  on  the  dust, 

And  Rome  again  is  free.  Book  L 

t  Silius  Italicus  has  studied  to  give  an  august  idea  of  Hannibal,  by  representing  hiaa 
as  surrounded  with  all  his  victories,  in  the  place  of  guards.  One  who  had  formed  a 
design  of  assassinating  him  in  the  midst  of  a  feast,  is  thus  addressed  : 

Fallit  >e,  mensas,  inter  quod  credis  inermem  ; 

Tot  bellis  quassita  viro,  tot  caedibus,  armat 

Majestas  sterna  ducem.     Si  admoveris  ora 

Cannas  et  Trebiam  ante  oculos,  Trasymenaque  busta 

Et  Pauli  stare  ingentem  miraberis  umbram. 
A  thought  somewhat  of  the  same  nature  occurs  in  a  French  author:  "II  se 
"  cache  ;  mais  sa  reputation  le  dfecouvre  ;  11  maiche  sans  suite  Si  sans  6quipage  ; 
"mais  chacun,  dans  son  esprit,  le  met  sur  un  char  de  triomphe.  On  compte  en  le 
"voyant,  les  ennemis  qu'il  a  vaincus,  non  pas  les  serviteurs  qui  le  suivent.  Tout 
"seul  qu'il  est,  on  se  figure,  amour  de  lui,  ses  vertus,  et  ses  victoires,  qui  l'accom- 
"  pagnent.  Moins  il  est  superbe,  plus  il  devient  venerable."  Oraison  funcbre  de 
M.  de  Turenne,  par  M.  Flechier.  Both  these  passages  are  splendid,  rather  than 
sublime.  In  the  first,  therr-  is  a  want  of  justness  in  the  thought :  in  the  secc.nd. 
of  simplicity  in  the  expression 


LECT.  III.] 


SUBLIMITY  IN  OBJECTS. 


3? 


tng  be  applies  to  them  all.  The  author  of  "a  Fhilosophical  In 
"  quiry  into  the  origin  of  our  ideas  of  the  sublime  and  beautiful,"* 
to  whom  we  are  indebted  for  several  ingenious  and  original  thoughts 
upon  this  subject,  proposes  a  formal  theory  upon  this  foundation, 
that  terror  is  the  source  of  the  sublime,  and  that  no  objects  have 
this  character,  but  such  as  produce  impressions  .of  pain  and  danger 
It  is  indeed  true,  that  many  terrible  objects  are  highly  sublime  ;  and 
that  grandeur  does  not  refuse  an  alliance  with  the  idea  of  danger. 
But  though  this  is  very  properly  illustrated  by  the  author,  (many  of 
whose  sentiments  on  that  head  I  have  adopted,)  yet  he  seems  to 
stretch  his  theory  too  far,  when  he  represents  the  sublime  as  con- 
sisting wholly  in  modes  of  danger,  or  of  pain.  For  the  proper 
sensation  of  sublimity  appears  to  be  distinguishable  from  the  sen- 
sation of  either  of  these  ;  and  on  several  occasions,  to  be  entirely 
separated  from  them.  In  many  grand  objects,  there  is  no  coinci- 
dence with  terror  at  all ;  as  in  the  magnificent  prospect  of  wide 
extended  plains,  and  of  the  starry  firmament ;  or  in  the  moral  dis- 
positions and  sentiments,  which  we  view  with  high  admiration  ;  and 
in  many  painful  and  terrible  objects  also,  it  is  clear  there  is  no  sort 
of  grandeur.  The  amputation  of  a  limb,  or  the  bite  of  a  snake, 
are  exceedingly  terrible  ;  but  are  destitute  of  all  claim  whatever  to 
sublimity.  I  am  inclined  to  think,  that  mighty  force  or  power, 
whether  accompanied  with  terror  or  not,  whether  employed  in  pro- 
tecting, or  in  alarming  us,  has  a  better  title,  than  any  thing  that  has 
yet  been  mentioned,  to  be  the  fundamental  quality  of  the  sublime ; 
as,  after  the  review  which  we  have  taken,  there  does  not  occur  to 
me  any  sublime  object,  into  the  idea  of  which,  power,  strength,  and 
force,  either  enter  not  directly,  or  are  not  at  least  intimately  asso- 
ciated with  the  idea,  by  leading  our  thoughts  to  some  astonishing 
power  as  concerned  in  the  production  of  the  object.  However,  I 
do  not  insist  upon  this  as  sufficient  to  found  a  general  theory  :  it  is 
enough,  to  have  given  this  view  of  the  nature  and  different  kinds  of 
sublime  objects ;  by  which  I  hope  to  have  laid  a  proper  foundation 
for  discussing,  with  greater  accuracy,  the  sublime  in  writing  and 
composition. 

*  Mr.  Burke. 


QUESTIONS. 


How  are  taste,  criticism,  and  (jenius, 
currently  employed?  What  therefore 
is  here  necessary  ?  What  is  true  criti- 
cism ;  what  object  does  it  propose  ;  and 
how  does  it  proceed  ?  Of  the  rules  of 
criticism,  what  is  remarked  ?  On  the 
observation  of  what  beauties  is  criti- 
cism founded  ?  How  is  this  illustrated 
from  Aristotle's  rules  concerning  the 
unity  of  action  in  dramatic  anil  epic 
composition?     Of    such  observations, 


what  is  remarked  ?  Why  may  a  mas- 
terly genius  untaught,  compose  agree- 
ably to  the  most  important  rules  of 
criticism  ?  What  illustration  is  given  ? 
Why  is  this  no  argument  against  the 
usefulness  of  criticism  as  an  art  ?  As 
no  observations  or  rules  can  supply  the 
defects  of  genius,  or  inspire  it  where  it 
is  wanting,  what  are  their  advantages  ? 
For  what  are  critical  rules  chiefly  de- 
signed ?    For  what   must  we  look   tr 


37  a 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  Ill 


nature?  What  advantage  do  we  de- 
rive from  what  has  been  said?  How 
have  critics  been  represented?  Why 
are  not  such  prefaces  calculated  to 
give  a  very  favourable  idea  of  the 
genius  of  the  author  ?  Upon  what  sup- 
position do  the  declamations  against 
criticism  commonly  proceed?  How 
does  it  appear  that  this  is  not  true? 
How  is  this  illustrated  ?  Why  will  the 
number  of  incompetent  critics  always 
be  great;  and  what  follows?  What 
more  plausible  objection  maybe  formed 
against  criticism?  According  to  the 
principles  laid  down  in  the  last  lecture, 
to  whom  must  the  last  appeal  in  every 
work  of  taste  be  made;  and  why? 
With  respect  to  this,  what  is  observed  ' 
How  is  this  observation  illustrated  ?  In 
such  cases,  of  the  public,  and  of  true 
criticism,  what  is  said?  The  plays  of 
Shakspeare,  as  dramatic  compositions, 
contain  the  grossest  violations  of  the 
laws  of  criticism;  why  then  are  they 
admired?  With  what,  in  his  writings, 
are  we  displeased;  but  in  what  does 
he  surpass  all  other  writers?  What 
does  our  author  next  proceed  to  ex- 
plain ?  How  do  taste  and  genius  differ  ? 
How  is  this  difference  illustrated  2 
What  does  genius,  therefore,  deserve 
to  be  considered  ;  and  what  does  it  im- 
port? Which  forms  the  critic;  and 
which  the  poet  and  orator?  On  the 
common  acceptation  of  the  word  genius, 
what  is  it  proper  to  observe ;  and  what 
is  it  used  to  signify?  Howls  this  illus- 
trated? Whence  is  this  talent  for  ex- 
celling received?  Of  the  effect  of  art 
and  study,  what  is  remarked  ?  How  is 
the  remark  illustrated,  that  genius  is 
more  limited  in  its  sphere  of  operation 
than  taste  ?  What  is  said  of  a  universal 
genius;  and  why?  Why  is  this  remark 
here  made  ?  As  a  genius  for  the  fine 
arts  supposes  taste,  what  is  clear? 
How  is  this  illustrated,  in  reference  to 
a  poet  or  an  orator  ?  What  remark  fol- 
lows, and  when  is  this  the  case?  Of 
the  writings  of  Homer  and  Shakspeare, 
as  proofs  of  this  observation,  what  is 
said?  As  all  human  perfection  is  limit- 
ed, what,  in  all  probability,  is  a  law  of 
cur  nature?  Having  explained  the 
nature  of  taste,  &c.  what  are  we  next 
to  consider  ?  How  extensive  is  the  field 
that  is  here  opened  to  us?  Why  need 
not  a!!  these  he  examined  fully  ?  What 
ifi  all  that   >ur  author  proposes?   Who 


was  the  first  that  attempted  a  regular 
inquiry  into  the  sources  of  the  pleasures 
of  taste;  and  under  what  heads 
he  reduced  them?  Of  his  speculations 
on  this  subject  what  is  remarked ;  and 
of  what  has  he  the  merit?  Why  have 
not  very  considerable   advances 
made  since  his  time,  in  this  part  of 
philosophical  criticism  ?  What  is  a  very 
diificult  task ;   and  when  do  we  find 
ourselves  at  a  loss?  How  is  this  illus- 
trated? Of  the  efficient  and  final 
of  these  sensations,  what  is  observed; 
and,  on  entering  on  this  subject,  what 
can  we  not  avoid?  What  remark  fol- 
lows? Without  what  might  "the  i 
sary  purposes  of  life  have  i 
dantly  answered?   Of  this  addil 
embellishment  and  glory,  what 
served?  By  whom,  and  in  what  lan- 
guage, has  this  thought  been  happily 
preserved  ? 

With  what  does  our  author  b 
and  why  does  he  propose  to  treat  it  at 
some  length?   What    i 
which  he  proposes  to  treat  it  ? 
two  things  does  our  author  distinj 
and  what  does  he  consider  synonimous 
terms?    If  there  be    any  distil 
between  them,  whence  does  it  arise  ? 
What  is   it  not  easy  to  describe  in 
words?  What  effect  does  it  pn 
What  is  the  nature  of  the  emotion  that 
it  produces;    and   from   what    : 
very   distinguishable?    In  whal 
the  simplest  form  of  external  gna 
appear?   What  examples  are 
Though  all  vastness  produces  Ehe  im- 
pression of  sublimity,  yet,  what  is 
remarked?   How    is  this  illustrated  ? 
Whence  arises  the  excessive  gra  I 
of  the  firmament;  and  of  the  ocean? 
Wherever  space  is  concerned,  what  is 
evident?  How  is  this  illustrated;  and 
hence,  what  follows?  From  this,  what 
have  some  imagined  ?  Why  is  not  our 
author  of  this  opinion  ?  What  are  in 
contestably  grand  objects  ?  "What  il- 
lustration is  given?  In  general,  what 
may  we  observe;  and  hence,  what  fol- 
lows ?  When  is  a  stream  of  water  beau- 
tiful ;  and  when  sublime  1  From  what 
animals  do  we  draw  sublime  compari- 
sons? What  remark  follows?  How  has 
the  engagement  of  two  great  armies 
always   been   considered;   and   why? 
Farther  to  illustrate  this  subject,  whal 
is  it  proper  to  remark?  "What  are  the 
scenes  of  nature  that  elevate  the  mind 


I.ECT.   IV.] 


QUESTIONS 


37  ft 


in  the  highest  degree,  and  produce  the 
sublime  sensation?"  Hence,  what  fol- 
lows ;  and  what  illustration  is  given  ? 
For  what  purpose  is  darkness  very 
commonly  applied?  What  illustrations 
are  given  from  David,  from  Milton, 
,  and  from  Virgil  ?  For  what  are  these 
passages  here  quoted  ?  From  what  ob- 
eervation  does  it  appear  that  obscurity 
is  not  unfavourable  to  the  sublime  ? 
Thus,  in  the  descriptions  of  the  ap- 
pearances of  supernatural  beings,  what 
do  we  see  ?  From  what  does  their  sub- 
limity arise  ?  In  what  passage  may  we 
see  this  fully  exemplified  ?  Why  are 
ideas  taken  "from  the  Supreme  Being 
more  sublime  than  any  others?  In 
general,  what  objects  strike  us  as  great; 
and  what  is  favourable  to  the  impres- 
sions of  their  sublimity  ?  How  does  it 
appear  that  disorder  frequently  heigh- 
tens grandeur?  Of  exact  proportion 
of  parts,  what  is  said  ?  How  is  this  il- 
lustrated from  an  irregular  mass  of 
rocks?  In  the  attempts  which  human 
art  can  make  towards  producing  the 
sublime,  what  always  constitutes  a 
principal  part  ?  From  what  does  great- 
ness of  manner,  in  architecture,  seem 
chiefly  to  arise?  By  what  does  a  Gothic 
cathedral  raise  ideas  of  grandeur  in  the 
mind  ?  What  class  of  sublime  objects 
still  remain  to  be  mentioned ;  and  from 
what  do  they  arise?  Under  what 
names  do  they  chiefly  fall ;  and  what 
effect  do  they  produce  ?  Repeat  the 
instances  given  from  Comeille,  from 
Porus  and  Alexander,  and  from  Ca?sar 
and  the  pilot.  Where  are  we  struck 
with  a  sense  of  the  sublime  ?  Repeat 
the  passage  from  Akenside.  What  is 
the  most  natural  source  of  this  sub- 
limity? On  what  occasions,  when  virtue 
either  has  no  place,  or  is  imperfectly 


displayed,  can  we  not  withhold  our  ad- 
miration ?  Of  the  emotion  raised  in  the 
variety  of  instances  enumerated,  what 
is  said?  What  question  next  arises? 
What  have  some  imag  ined  to  be  the 
fundamental  quality  of  the  sublime; 
but  what  have  we  seen?  What  theory 
is  proposed  by  Mr.  Burke ;  what  is  said 
of  it ;  and  why  ?  In  what  grand  ob- 
jects, or  moral  dispositions  and  senti- 
ments, is  there  no  coincidence  with 
terror ;  and  in  what  terrible  ol 
also,  is  there  no  sort  of  grandeur  ? 
What  is  our  author  inclined  to  think  is 
the  fundamental  quality  of  the  sub- 
lime ;  and  for  what  reason  ? 


ANALYSIS. 


1.  Criticism. 

A.  The  definition  of  Criticism. 

B.  The  nature  and  object  of  Criti- 

cism, 
c.  Objections  to  it  considered. 

2.  Genius. 

A.  The  distinction  between  Taste 

«nd  Genius. 

B.  Tie  nature  of  Genius. 

c.  The  connexion  between  Taste 
and  Genius. 

3.  The  pleasures  of  Taste. 

A.  Mr.  Addison's  Theory. 

B.  The  sources  of  the  pleasures  of 

Taste. 

4.  Grandeur,  or  Sublimity,  in  external 

objects. 
a.  The  nature  of  Sublimity. 

E.  The  sources  of  Sublimity 

c.  Solemn  and  awful  objects. 

d.  Obscurity. 

e.  Disorder. 

F.  Moral  Sublimity. 

g.  The  foimdation  of  the  Sublime, 


lecture  IV. 


THE  SUBLIME  IN  WRITING. 

Having  treated  of  grandeur  or  sublimity  in  external  objects,  the 
way  seems  now  to  be  cleared,  for  treating,  with  more  advantage,  of 
the  descriptions  of  such  objects  :  or,  of  what  is  called  the  sublime  in 
writing.  Though  I  may  appear  early  to  enter  on  the  consideration 
of  this  subject ;  yet,  as  the  sublime  is  a  species  of  writing  which  de 


38  SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING.  [lect.  iv. 

pends  less  than  any  other  on  the  artificial  embellishments  of  rheto- 
ric, it  may  be  examined  with  as  much  propriety  here,  as  in  any  sub- 
sequent part  of  the  lectures. 

Many  critical  terms  have  unfortunately  been  employed  in  a  sense 
too  loose  and  vague;  none  more  so,  than  that  of  the  sublime. 
Every  one  is  acquainted  with  the  character  of  Caesar's  Commenta- 
ries, and  of  the  style  in  which  they  are  written  :  a  style  remarkably 
pure,  simple,  and  elegant ;  but  the  most  remote  from  the  sublime 
of  any  of  the  classical  authors.  Yet  this  author  has  a  German  critic, 
Johannes  Gulielmus  Bergerus,  who  wrote  no  longer  ago  than  the 
year  1720,  pitched  upon  as  the  perfect  model  of  the  sublime,  and  has 
composed  a  quarto  volume,  entitled  Dc  naturalipulchritudine  Ora- 
tionis;  the  express  intention  of  which  is  to  show,  that  Caesar's  Com- 
mentaries contain  the  most  complete  exemplification  of  all  Longi- 
nus's  rules  relating  to  sublime  writing.  This  I  mention  as  a  strong 
proof  of  the  confused  ideas  which  have  prevailed,  concerning  this 
subject.  The  true  sense  of  sublime  writing,  undoubtedly,  is  such  a 
description  of  objects,  or  exhibition  of  sentiments,  which  are  in 
themselves  of  a  sublime  nature,  as  shall  give  us  strong  impressions 
of  them.  But  there  is  another  very  indefinite,  and  therefore  very 
improper,  sense,  which  has  been  too  often  put  upon  it;  when  it  is 
applied  to  signify  any  remarkable  and  distinguishing  excellency  of 
composition  ;  whether  it  raise  in  us  the  ideas  of  grandeur,  or  those 
of  gentleness,  elegance,  or  any  other  sort  of  beauty.  In  this  sense, 
Caesar's  Commentaries  may,  indeed,  be  termed  sublime,  and  so  may 
many  sonnets,  pastorals,  and  love  elegies,  as  well  as  Homer's  Iliad. 
But  this  evidently  confounds  the  use  of  words,  and  marks  no  one 
species,  or  character,  of  composition  whatever. 

I  am  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  observe,  that  the  sublime  is  too  often 
used  in  this  last  and  improper  sense,  by  the  celebrated  critic  Longi- 
nus,  in  his  treatise  on  this  subject.  He  sets  out,  indeed,  with  des- 
cribing it  in  its  just  and  proper  meaning ;  as  something  that  elevates 
the  mind  above  itself,  and  fills  it  with  high  conceptions,  and  a  noble 
pride.  But  from  this  view  of  it  he  frequently  departs;  and  substi- 
tutes in  the  place  of  it,  whatever,  in  any  strain  of  composition,  pleases 
highly.  Thus,  many  of  the  passages  which  he  produces  as  instances 
of  the  sublime,  are  merely  elegant,  without  having  the  most  distant 
relation  to  proper  sublimity;  witness  Sappho'sfamous  ode,  on  which 
he  descants  at  considerable  length.  He  points  out  five  sources  of 
the  sublime.  The  first  is  boldness  or  grandeur  in  the  thoughts ; 
the  second  is,  the  pathetic ;  the  third,  the  proper  application  of 
figures ;  the  fourth,  the  use  of  tropes  and  beautiful  expressions ;  the 
fifth,  musical  structure  and  arrangement  of  words.  This  is  the  plan 
of  one  who  was  writing  a  treatise  of  rhetoric,  or  of  the  beauties  of 
writing  in  general ;  not  of  the  sublime  in  particular.  For  of  these 
five  heads,  only  the  two  first  have  any  peculiar  relation  to  the  sub- 
xime ;  boldness  and  grandeur  in  the  thoughts,  and  in  some  instances 
the  pathetic,  or  strong  exertions  of  passion ;  the  other  three,  tropes, 
figures,  and  musical  arrangement,  have  no  more  relation  to  the 
sublime,  than  to  other  kinds  of  good  writing;  perhaps  less  to  the 


lect.  iv.]  SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING.  39 

sublime,  than  to  any  other  species  whatever ;  because  it  requires 
less  the  assistance  of  ornament.  From  this  it  appears,  that  clear  and 
precise  ideas  on  this  head  are  not  to  be  expected  from  that  writer. 
I  would  not,  however,  be  understood,  as  if  I  meant,  by  this  censure, 
to  represent  his  treatise  as  of  small  value.  I  know  no  critic,  ancient 
or  modern,  that  discovers  a  more  lively  relish  of  the  beauties  of  fine 
writing,  than  Longinus  ;  and  he  has  also  the  merit  of  being  himself 
an  ex  :ellent,  and  in  several  passages,  a  truly  sublime,  writer.  But 
as  his  work  has  been  generally  considered  as  a  standard  on  this  sub- 
ject, it  was  incumbent  on  me  to  give  my  opinion  concerning  the 
benefit  to  be  derived  from  it.  It  deserves  to  be  consulted,  not  so 
much  for  distinct  instruction  concerning  the  sublime,  as  for  excellent 
general  ideas  concerning  beauty  in  writing. 

I  return  now  to  the  proper  and  natural  idea  of  the  sublime  in 
composition.  The  foundation  of  it  must  always  be  laid  in  the  na- 
ture of  the  object  described.  Unless  it  be  such  an  object  as,  if  pre- 
sented to  our  eyes,  if  exhibited  to  us  in  reality,  would  raise  ideas  of 
that  elevating,  that  awful  and  magnificent  kind,  which  we  call  sub- 
lime ;  the  description,  however  finety  drawn,  is  net  entitled  to  come 
under  this  class.  This  excludes  all  objects  that  are  merely  beautiful, 
gay,  or  elegant.  In  the  next  place,  the  object  must  not  only,  in  it- 
self, be  sublime,  but  it  must  be  set  before  us  in  such  a  light  as  is  most 
proper  to  give  us  a  clear  and  full  impression  of  it ;  it  must  be  des- 
cribed with  strength,  with  conciseness,  and  simplicity.  This  depends, 
principally,  upon  the  lively  impression  which  the  poet,  or  orator,  has 
of  the  object  which  he  exhibits  ;  and  upon  his  being  deeply  affected, 
and  warmed,  by  the  sublime  idea  which  he  would  convey.  If  his  own 
feeling  be  languid,  he  can  never  inspire  us  with  any  strong  emotion. 
Instances,  which  are  extremely  necessary  on  this  subject,  will  clearly 
show  the  importance  of  all  the  requisites  which  I  have  just  now 
mentioned. 

It  is,  generally  speaking,  among  the  most  ancient  authors,  that 
we  are  to  look  for  the  most  striking  instances  of  the  sublime.  I  am 
inclined  to  think  that  the  early  ages  of  the  world,  and  the  rude  unim- 
proved state  of  society,  are  peculiarly  favourable  to  the  strong  emo- 
tions of  sublimity.  The  genius  of  men  is  then  much  turned  to  admi- 
ration and  astonishment.  Meeting  with  many  objects,  to  them  new 
and  strange,  their  imagination  is  kept  glowing,  and  their  passions  are 
often  raised  to  the  utmost.  They  think,  and  express  themselves 
boldly,  and  without  restraint.  In  the  progress  of  society,  the  genius 
and  manners  of  men  undergo  a  change  more  favourable  to  accuracy, 
than  to  strength  or  sublimity. 

Of  all  writings,  ancient  or  modern,  the  sacred  Scriptures  afford  u? 
the  highest  instances  of  the  sublime.  The  ^ .-©criptions  of  the  Deity, 
in  them,  are  wonderfully  noble ;  both  fmm  the  grandeur  of  the  ob- 
ject and  the  manner  of  representing  \  Whai  ai:  fiSs'emblage,  for 
instance,  of  awful  and  sublime  idea?  is  v\  denied  to  BS>  S>  that  pas- 
sage of  the  xviiith  psalm,  where  an  aptx^tr>nce  of  the  J>  m.ghty  is 
described :  "  In  my  distress  I  called  upon  th  e  Lord ;"  be  fc«ur<J  my 
"voice  out  qf  his  temple,  a™1  my  cry  came  before  h;iis         -en* 


40  SUBLIMITS  IN  WRITING.  [lect.it. 

"the  earth  shook  and  trembled  ,  the  foundations  also  of  the  hills 
"  were  moved;  because  he  wa*>  \  ..:n.  He  bowed  the  heavens,  and 
"  came  down,  and  darkness  wa-  >.\  .  his  feet ;  and  he  did  ride  up- 
"on  a  Cherub,  and  did  fly  ;  ye«,  w  did  fly  upon  the  wings  of  the 
"  wind.  He  made  darkness  his  secret  place  ;  his  pavilion  round 
"  about  him  were  dark  waters,  and  thick  clouds  of  the  sky."  Here, 
agreeably  to  the  principles  established  in  the  last  lecture,  we  see 
with  whatpropriety  and  success  the  circumstances  of  darkness  and 
terror  are  applied  for  heightening  the  sublime.  So,  also,  the  pro- 
phet Habakkuk,  in  a  similar  passage  :  "  He  stood,  and  measured 
"the  earth  :  he  beheld,  and  drove  asunder  the  nations.  The  ever- 
"  lasting  mountains  were  scattered  ;  the  perpetual  hills  did  bow ; 
"  his  ways  are  everlasting.  The  mountains  saw  thee  ;  and  they 
"  trembled.  The  overflowing  of  the  water  passed  by.  The  deep 
"  uttered  his  voice,  and  lifted  up  his  hands  on  high." 

The  noted  instance  given  by  Longinus,  from  Moses,  "  God  said, 
"  let  there  be  light;  and  there  was  light ;"  is  not  liable  to  the  censure 
which  I  passed  on  some  of  his  instances,  of  being  foreign  to  the 
subject.  It  belongs  to  the  true  sublime ;  and  the  sublimity  of  it 
arises  from  the  strong  conception  it  gives,  of  an  exertion  of  power, 
producing  its  effect  with  the  utmost  speed  and  facility.  A  thought 
of  the  same  kind  is  magnificently  amplified  in  the  following  passage 
of  Isaiah  :  (chap.  xliv.  24,  27,  2S.)  "Thus  saith  the  Lord,  thy  Re- 
"  deemer,  and  he  that  formed  thee  from  the  womb :  I  am  the  Lord 
"  that  maketh  all  things,  that  stretcheth  forth  the  heavens  alone,  that 
"  spreadeth  abroad  the  earth  by  myself — that  saith  to  the  deep,  be 
"  dry,  and  I  will  dry  up  thy  rivers  ;  that  saith  of  Cyrus,  he  is  my 
"shepherd,  and  shall  perform  ail  my  pleasure;  even,  saying  to  Je- 
rusalem, thou  shalt  be  built;  and  to  the  temple,  thy  foundation 
"  shall  be  laid."  There  is  a  passage  in  the  psalms,  which  deserves 
to  be  mentioned  under  this  head:  "God,"  says  the  psalmist,  "stil- 
"  leth  the  noise  of  the  seas,  the  noise  of  their  waves,  and  the  tu- 
"  mults  of  the  people."  The  joining  together  two  such  grand  ob- 
jects, as  the  raging  of  the  waters,  and  the  tumults  of  the  people, 
between  which  there  is  so  much  resemblance  as  to  form  a  very  na- 
tural association  in  the  fancy,  and  the  representing  them  both  as  sub- 
ject, at  one  moment,  to  the  command  of  God,  produces  a  noble  ef- 
fect. 

Homer  is  a  poet,  who,  in  all  ages,  and  by  all  critics,  has  bee. 
greatly  admired  for  sublimity ;  and  he  owes  much  of  his  grandem 
to  that  native  and  unaffected  simplicity  which  characterizes  his  man« 
ner.  His  descriptions  of  hosts  engaging ;  the  animation,  the  fire, 
and  rapidity,  which  he  throws  into  his  battles,  present  to  every  reader 
of  the  Iliad,  frequent  instances  of  sublime  writing.  His  introduc- 
tion of  the  gods,  tends  often  to  heighten,  in  a  high  degree,  the  ma- 
jesty of  his  warlike  scenes.  Hence  Longinus  bestows  such  high  and 
just  commendations  on  that  passage,  in  the  xvth  book  of  the  Iliad, 
where  Neptune,  when  preparing  to  issue  forth  into  the  engagement 
is  described  as  shaking  the  mountains  with  his  steps,  and  driving 
his  chariot  along  the  ocean.     Minerva,  arming  herself  ror  fight  m 


lect.  iv.]  SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING.  41 

the  vth  book  ;  and  Apollo,  in  the  xvth,  leading  on  the  Trojans, 
and  flashing  terror  with  his  xEgis  on  the  face  of  the  Greeks,  are  simi 
lar  instances  of  great  sublimity  added  to  the  description  of  battles, 
by  the  appearances  of  those  celestial  beings.  In  the  xxth  book, 
where  all  the  gods  take  part  in  the  engagement,  according  as  they 
severally  favour  either  the  Grecians  or  the  Trojans,  the  poet's  ge- 
nius is  signally  displayed,  and  the  description  rises  into  the  most 
awful  magnificence.  All  nature  is  represented  as  in  commotion. 
Jupiter  thunders  in  the  heavens ;  Neptune  strikes  the  earth  with 
his  trident;  the  shipri,  the  city,  and  the  mountains  shake;  the  earth 
trembles  to  its  centre  ;  Pluto  starts  from  his  throne,  in  dread  lest 
the  secrets  of  the  infernal  region  should  be  laid  open  to  the  view  of 
mortals.     The  passage  is  worthy  of  being  inserted. 

The  works  of  Ossian  (as  I  have  elsewhere  shown)  abound  with 

AuTXP  l-ril  /U.tQ'  OUthOV  'O\VU7T10l  «At/9cV   Xl'ApSv, 

''ftgro  cT"E£K  JtgXTS^B,  kxoc;coc  avi  i''1  'A6»'vh,— 
Avi  of'  'vAga;  iTi^a'biv,  igjiAvin  xxihxTrt  iircc, — 

"ft?  TKC  otjUpCDT^KC  /UZAX^tS  6so<   ST^t/VGVTSff, 

St/^/Ssxcv,  it  A'  ai/TU;  sg/J*  ^ywvre  fixguxt. 

AitVOV  J'  'i(sP'JVT>17i  TTXTilg  Xvf^Sv  TS  6im  Tt 

*T-^o6tr'  xutxp,  h(g6i  YXotuAxihv  eti'v«£i 
Txlxv  dLTTiipiTiM ,  opiocv  <r  xt-pruvx  kxpiivx. 

TlxVTl!  cT'  SS-O-EiOVTO  Tri&K  TOAt/T/lTstXK  ''i^Jlf, 

K»l  tcpvyxi,  "Vgiiw  ts  TTOKIS,  vxi  viisc  'A^a/ar. 
' 'EifJWsv  J"  uviv&QtV  a'rxf-  ivegeev,  'AiJavst/C, 
AeiVa?  <T'  Ik  flgsvss  x\to,  kx'i  ?«>!■  (U»  d  uTrepBt 
Txlxv  xv*ppyi£ui  Yli<ruAj.m  zvctri%Buv, 
Oixix  cTe  bvtiTolo-i  Y.-XI  x&xvxtokti  ^xvtin 
2/uegJaxe",  i:jPtcini'TX.  t»  ts  svyixrt  8soi  Trip 

Toa-a-o;  xpx  x.'.v7ros  mgTO  6eav  tpiS'i  ^uyioyTtev.  

Iliad,  xx.  47.  &c. 


But  when  the  powers  descending  swell'd  the  fight, 
Then  tumult  rose,  fierce  rage,  and  pale  affright : 
Now  through  the  trembling  shores  Minerva  calls, 
And  now  she  thunders  from  the  Grecian  walls. 
.  Mars,  hov'ring  o'er  his  Troy,  his  terror  shrouds 
In  gloomy  tempests,  and  a  night  of  '•louds ; 
Now  through  each  Trojan  heart  he  fury  pours, 
With  voice  divine,  from  Ilion's  topmost  towers  — 
Above,  the  sire  of  gods  his  thunder  rolls, 
And  peals  on  peals  redoubled  rend  the  poles; 
Beneath,  stern  Neptune  shakes  the  solid  ground, 
The  forests  wave,  the  mountains  nod  around ; 
Through  all  her  summits  tremble  Ida's  woods, 
And  from  their  sources  boil  her  hundred  floods : 
Troy's  turrets  totter  on  the  rocking  plain, 
And  the  toss'd  navies  beat  the  heaving  main. 
Deep  in  the  dismal  region  of  the  dead, 
Th'  infernal  monarch  rear'd  his  horrid  head, 
Leapt  from  his  throne,  lest  Neptune's  arm  should  lay 
His  dark  dominions  open  to  the  day  ; 
And  pour  in  light  on  PlHto's  drear  abodes, 
Abhorr'd  by  men,  and  dreadful  ev'n  to  gods. 
Such  wars  th'  immortals  wage  ;  such  horrors  rend 
The  world's  vast  coucave,  when  the  gods  contend.  pots. 

6 


42  SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING.  [lect.  it 

examples  of  the  sublime.  The  subjects  of  which  that  author  treats, 
and  the  manner  in  which  he  writes,  are  particularly  favourable  to  it 
He  possesses  all  the  plain  and  venerable  manner  of  the  ancient  times. 
He  deals  in  no  superfluous  or  gaudy  ornaments ;  but  throws  forth 
his  images  with  a  rapid  conciseness,  which  enables  tbem  to  strike  the 
mind  with  the  greatest  force.  Among  poets  of  more  polished  times 
we  are  to  look  for  the  graces  of  correct  writing,  for  just  proportion 
of  parts,  and  skilfully  conducted  narration.  In  the  midst  of  smiling 
scenery  and  pleasurable  themes,  the  gay  and  the  beautiful  will  ap- 
pear, undoubtedly,  to  more  advantage.  But  amidst  the  rude  scenes 
of  nature  and  of  society,  such  as  Ossian  describes  ;  amidst  rocks 
and  torrents,  and  whirlwinds  and  battles,  dwells  the  sublime  ;  and 
naturally  associates  itself  with  that  grave  and  solemn  spirit  which 
distinguishes  the  author  of  Fingal.  "As  autumn's  dark  storms 
"  pour  from  two  echoing  hills,  so  toward  each  other  approached  the 
"  heroes.  As  two  dark  streams  from  high  rocks  meet  and  mix,  and 
"  roar  on  the  plain  ;  loud,  rough,  and  dark,  in  battle  met  Lochlin 
"  and  Inisfail :  chief  mixed  his  strokes  with  chief,  and  man  with 
"  man.  Steel  clanging  sounded  on  steel.  Helmets  are  cleft  on 
"  high :  blood  bursts,  and  smoke  around.  As  the  troubled  noise 
"  of  the  ocean  when  roll  the  waves  on  high  ;  as  the  last  peal  of  the 
"  thunder  of  heaven  ;  such  is  the  noise  of  battle.  The  groan  of 
"  the  people  spreads  over  the  hills.  It  was  like  the  thunder  of  night, 
"  when  the  cloud  bursts  on  Cona,  and  a  thousand  ghosts  shriek  at 
"  once  on  the  hollow  wind."  Never  were  images  of  more  awful 
sublimity  employed  to  heighten  the  terror  of  battle. 

I  have  produced  these  instances,  in  order  to  demonstrate  that 
conciseness  and  simplicity  are  essential  to  sublime  writing.  Sim 
plicity  I  place  in  opposition  to  studied  and  profust  ornament:  and 
conciseness,  to  superfluous  expression.  The  reason  why  a  defecl, 
either  in  conciseness  or  simplicity,  is  hurtful  in  a  peculiar  manner 
to  the  sublime,  I  shall  endeavour  to  explain.  The  emotion  occa- 
sioned in  the  mind  by  some  great  or  noble  object,  raises  it  consi 
derably  above  its  ordinary  pitch.  A  sort  of  enthusiasm  is  produced, 
extremely  agreeable  while  it  lasts;  but  from  which  the  mind  is  ten- 
ding every  moment  to  fall  down  into  its  ordinary  situation.  Now, 
when  an  author  has  brought  us,  or  is  attempting  to  bring  us,  into 
this  state ;  if  he  multiplies  words  unnecessarily ;  if  he  decks  the  sub- 
lime object  which  he  presents  to  us,  round  and  round,  with  glittering 
ornaments ;  nay,  if  he  throws  in  any  one  decoration  that  sinks  in  the 
least,  below  the  capital  image,  that  moment  he  alters  the  key ;  he 
relaxes  the  tension  of  the  mind;  the  strength  of  the  feeling  is  emas- 
culated, the  beautiful  may  remain,  but  the  sublime  is  gone.  When 
Julius  Caesar  said  to  the  pilot  who  was  afraid  to  put  to  sea  with  him 
in  a  storm,  "  Quid  times  ?  Cassarem  vehis ;"  we  are  stmck  with  the 
daring  magnanimity  of  one  relying  with  such  confidence  on  his  cause 
and  his  fortune.  These  few  words  convey  every  thing  necessary 
to  give  us  the  impression  full.  Lucan  resolved  to  amplify  and  adorn 
the  thought.  Observe  how  every  time  he  twists  it  round,  it  departs 
farther  from  the  sublime,  till  it  ends  at  last  in  tumid  declamation. 


lect   iv.]  SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING.  4* 

Sperne  minas,  inquit,  pelagi,  ventoque  furenti 

Trade  sinum :  Italiam,  si,  coelo  auctore,  recusas, 

Me  pete.     Sola  tibi  causa  ha=c  est  justa  timoris 

Victorem  non  n6sse  tuum  ;  quern  numina  nunquaro 

Destituent ;  de  quo  male  tunc  Fortuna  meretur  v. 

Cum  post  vota  venit.     Medias  perrumpe  procellas  ' 

Tutela  secure  mea.     Coeli  iste  fretique 

Non  puppis  nostra?  labor  est.     Hanc  Cssare  pressam 

A  fluctu  defendet  onus  ;  nam  proderit  undis 

Ista  ratis ....  Quid  tanta  strage  paratur 

Ignoras  ?  quasrit  pelagi  ccelique  tumultu 

Quid  prsstet  fortuna  mihi.* —  phars.  p.  £78, 

On  account  of  the  great  importance  of  simplicity  and  concise- 
ness, I  conceive  rhyme,  in  English  verse,  to  be,  if  not  inconsistent 
with  the  sublime,  at  least  very  unfavourable  to  it.  The  constrained 
elegance  of  this  kind  of  verse,  and  studied  smoothness  of  the  sounds, 
answering  regularly  to  each  other  at  the  end  of  the  line,  though  they 
be  quite  consistent  with  gentle  emotions,  yet  weaken  the  native 
force  of  sublimity  ;  besides,  that  the  superfluous  words  which  the 
poet  is  often  obliged  to  introduce  in  order  to  fill  up  the  rhyme,  tend 
farther  to  enfeeble  it.  Homer's  description  of  the  nod  of  Jupiter, 
as  shaking  the  heavens,  has  been  admired,  in  all  ages,  as  highly  sub- 
lime. Literally  translated,  it  runs  thus :  "He  spoke,  and  bending 
"  his  sable  brows,  gave  the  awful  nod ;  while  he  shook  the  ce/estial 
"locks  of  his  immortal  head,  all  Olympus  was  shaken."  Mr.  Pope 
translates  it  thus : 

He  spoke  :  and  awful  bends  his  sable  brows, 
Shakes  his  ambrosial  curls,  and  gives  the  nod, 
The  stamp  of  fate,  and  sanction  of  a  God. 
High  heaven  with  trembling  the  dread  signal  took, 
And  all  Olympus  to  its  centre  shook. 

The  image  is  spread  out,  and  attempted  to  be  beautified ;  but  it 
\B,'m  truth,  weakened.  The  third  line — "The  stamp  of  fate,  and 
"sanction  of  a  God,"  is  merely  expletive,  and  introduced  for  no 

*  But  Cffisar  still  superior  to  distress, 
Fearless,  and  confident  of  sure  success, 
Thus  to  the  pilot  lcud : — The  seas  despise, 
And  the  vain  threat'ning  of  the  noisy  skies  ; 
Though  gods  deny  thee  yon  Ausonian  strand, 
Yet  go,  I  charge  you,  go,  at  my  command. 
Thy  ignorance  alone  can  cause  thy  fears, 
Thou  know'st  not  what  a  freight  thy  vessel  bears  ; 
Thou  know'st  not  I  am  he  to  whom  'tis  given, 
Never  to  want  the  care  of  watchful  heaven. 
Obedient  fortune  waits  my  humble  thrall, 
And  always  ready,  comes  before  I  call. 
Let  winds  and  seas,  loud  wars  at  freedom  wage, 
And  waste  upon  themselves  their  empty  rage ; 
A  stronger,  mightier  daemon  is  thy  friend, 
Thou,  and  thy  bark,  on  Caesar's  fate  depend. 
Thou  stand'st  amaz'd  to  view  this  dreadful  scene, 
And  wonder'st  what  the  gods  and  fortune  mean ; 
But  artfully  their  bounties  thus  they  raise, 
And  from  my  danger  arrogate  new  praise ; 
Amidst  the  fears  of  death  they  bid  me  live, 
And  still  enhance  what  they  are  sure  to  give.  BOWB. 


4i  SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING  [lect.  iv 

othir  reason  but  to  fill  up  the  rhyme;  for  it  interrupts  the  descrip- 
tion, and  clogs  the  image.  For  the  same  reason,  out  of  mere  com 
pliance  wi'h  the  rhyme,  Jupiter  is  represented  as  shaking  his  locks 
before  he  gives  the  nod  ; — "  Shakes  his  ambrosial  curls,  and  gives 
"  the  nod,"  which  is  trifling,  and  without  meaning:  whereas,  in  the 
original,  the  hair  of  his  head  shaken,  is  the  effect  of  his  nod,  and 
makes  a  happy  picturesque  circumstance  in  the  description.* 

The  boldness,  freedom,  and  variety  of  our  blank  verse,  is  infinite- 
ly more  favourable  than  rhyme,  to  all  kinds  of  sublime  poetry.  The 
fullest  proof  of  this  is  afforded  by  Milton ;  an  author  whose  genius 
led  him  eminently  to  the  sublime.  The  whole  first  and  second 
books  of  Paradise  Lost,  are  continued  instances  of  it  Take  only, 
for  an  example,  the  following  noted  description  of  Satan,  after  his 
fall,  appearing  at  the  head  of  the  infernal  hosts : 

-He,  above  the  rest, 


In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent, 

Stood  like  a  tower  ;  his  form  had  not  yet  lost 

All  her  original  brightness,  nor  appcur'd 

Less  than  archangel  ruin'd  ;  and  the  excess 

01'  glory  obscur'd :  as  when  the  sun  new  risen,  » 

Looks  through  the  horizontal  misty  aii, 

Shorn  of  his  beams  ;  or,  from  behind  the  moon, 

In  dim  eclipse,  disastrous  twilight  sheds 

On  half  the  nations,  and  with  fear  of  change 

Perplexes  monarchs.     Darken'd  so,  yet  shone 

Above  them  all  th'  archangel. 

Here  concur  a  variety  of  sources  of  the  sublime :  the  principal  ob- 
ject eminently  great;  a  high  superior  nature,  fallen  indeed,  but  erect- 
ing itself  against  distress  ;  the  grandeur  of  the  principal  object 
heightened,  by  associating  it  with  so  noble  an  idea  as  that  of  the  sun 
suffering  an  eclipse ;  this  picture  shaded  with  all  those  images  of 
change  and  trouble,  of  darkness  and  terror,  which  coincide  so  finely 
with  the  sublime  emotion;  and  the  whole  expressed  in  a  style  and 
versification,  easy,  natural,  and  simple,  but  magnificent. 

I  have  spoken  of  simplicity  and  conciseness,  as  essential  to  sublime 
writing.  In  my  general  description  of  it,  I  mentioned  strength,  as 
another  necessary  requisite.  The  strength  of  description  arises,  in 
a  great  measure,  from  a  simple  conciseness;  but,  it  supposes  also 
something  more  ;  namely,  a  proper  choice  of  circumstances  in  the 
description,  so  as  to  exhibit  the  object  in  its  full  and  most  striking 
point  of  view.  For  every  object  has  several  faces,  so  to  speak,  by 
which  it  may  be  presented  to  us,  according  to  the  circumstances  with 
which  we  surround  it ;  and  it  will  appear  eminently  sublime,  or  not, 
in  proportion  as  all  these  circumstances  are  happily  chosen,  and  of  a 
sublime  kind.  Here  lies  the  great  art  of  the  writer ;  and,  indeed, 
the  great  difficulty  of  sublime  description.  If  the  description  be 
too  general,  and  divested  of  circumstances,  the  object  appears  in  a 
faint  light ;  it  makes  a  feeble  impression,  or  no  impression  at  all,  on 
the  reader.  At  the  same  time,  if  any  trivial  or  improper  circum- 
stances are  mingled,  the  whole  is  degraded. 

•  See  Webb  on  the  Beauties  of  Poetry. 


lect  iv  J  SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING.  45 

A  storm  or  tempest,  for  instance,  is  a  sublime  object  in  nature 
But  to  render  it  sublime  iv  description,  it  is  not  euough  either  to  give 
us  mere  general  expressions  concerning  the  violence  of  the  tempest, 
or  to  describe  its  common  vulgar  effects,  in  overthrowing  trees  and 
houses.  It  must  be  painted  with  such  circumstances  as  fill  the  mind 
with  great  and  awful  ideas.  This  is  very  happily  done  by  Virgil,  in 
the  following  passage : 

Ipse  Pater,  media  nimborum  in  nocte,  corusca 

Fulmina  molitur  dextra;  quo  maxima  motu 

Terra  tremit ;  fugere  ferse  ;  et  mortalia  corda 

Per  gentes  humilis  stravit  pavor  :  Ille  flagranti 

Aut  Atho,  aut  Rhodopen,  aut  alta  Ceraunia  telo 

Dejicit.* geor.  i. 

Every  circumstance  in  this  noble  description  is  the  production  of 
an  imagination  heated  and  astonished  with  the  grandeur ^f the  object 
If  there  be  any  defect,  it  is  in  the  words  immediately  following  those 
I  have  quoted :  "  Ingeminant  Austri,  et  densissimus  imber  ;"  where 
the  transition  is  made  too  hastily,  I  am  afraid,  from  the  preceding 
sublime  images,  to  a  thick  shower,  and  the  blowing  of  the  south 
wind ;  and  shows  how  difficult  it  frequently  is  to  descend  with  grace, 
without  seeming  to  fall. 

The  high  importance  of  the  rule  which  I  have  been  now  giving, 
concerning  the  proper  choice  of  circumstances,  when  description  is 
meant  to  be  sublime,  seems  to  me  not  to  have  been  sufficiently  at- 
tended to.  It  has,  however,  such  a  foundation  in  nature,  as  renders 
the  least  deflexion  from  it  fatal.  When  a  writer  is  aiming  at  the 
beautiful  only,  his  descriptions  may  have  improprieties  in  them,  and 
yet  be  beautiful  still.  Some  trivial,  or  misjudged  circumstances,  can 
be  overlooked  by  the  reader;  they  make  only  the  difference  of  more 
or  less  :  the  gay,  or  pleasing  emotion,  which  he  has  raised,  subsists 
still.  But  the  case  is  quite  different  with  the  sublime.  There,  one 
trifling  circumstance,  one  mean  idea,  is  sufficient  to  destroy  the  whole 
charm.  This  is  owing  to  the  nature  of  the  emotion  aimed  at  by 
sublime  description,  which  admits  of  no  mediocrity,  and  cannot  sub- 
sist in  a  middle  state ;  but  must  either  highly  transport  us,  or,  if  un- 
successful in  the  execution,  leave  us  greatly  disgusted  and  displeased. 
We  attempt  to  rise  along  with  the  writer;  the  imagination  is  awaken- 
ed, and  put  upon  the  stretch  ;  but  it  requires  to  be  supported;  and 
if,  in  the  midst  of  its  efforts,  you  desert  it  unexpectedly,  down  if 
conies  with  a  painful  shock.     When  Milton,  in  his  battle  of  the 


The  father  of  the  gods  his  glory  shrouds, 
Involv'd  in  tempests,  and  a  night  of  clouds  ; 
And  from  the  middle  darkness  flashing  out, 
By  fits  he  deals  his  fiery  bolts  about. 
Earth  feels  the  motions  of  her  an{ 
Hf  r  entrails  tremble,  and  her  moi 
And  flying  beasts  in  forests  seek; 
Deep  horror  seizes  every  human  breast ; 
Their  pride  is  humbled,  and  their  fears  confest  : 
While  he,  from  high,  his  rolling  thunder  throws, 
And  fires  the  mountains  with  repeated  blows; 
The  rocks  are  from  their  old  foundations  ren.t, 
The  winds  redouble,  and  the  rains  augment. 

G 


tone. 

ngry  God,  ) 

Diintains  nod,  > 

l  abode.  ) 


4  5  SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING.  [lect.  iv 

angels,  decribes  them  as  tearing  up  the  mountains,  and  throwing 
them  at  one  another:  there  are,  in  his  description,  as  Mr.  Addison 
has  observed,  no  circumstances  but  what  are  properly  subline : 

From  their  foundations  loos'ning  to  and  fro, 
They  pluck'd  the  seated  hills,  with  all  their  load, 
Rocks,  waters,  woods  ;  and  by  the  shaggy  tops 
Uplifting,  bore  them  in  their  hands. 

Whereas  Claudian,  in  a  fragment  upon  the  wars  of  the  giants,  has 
contrived  to  render  this  idea  of  their  throwing  the  mountains,  which 
is  in  itself  so  grand,  burlesque  and  ridiculous ;  by  this  single  circum- 
stance, of  one  of  his  giants  with  the  mountain  Ida  upon  his  shoulders, 
and  a  river  which  flowed  from  the  mountain,  running  down  along 
the  giant's  back,  as  he  held  it  up  in  that  posture.  There  is  a  de- 
scription too  in  Virgil,  which,  I  think,  is  censurable;  though  more 
slightly  in  this  respect.  It  is  that  of  the  burning  mountain  iEtna ;  a 
subject  certainly  very  proper  to  be  worked  up  by  a  poet  into  a  sub 
lime  description  : 


-Iloriificis  juxta  tonat  iF.tna  minis. 


Interduinqiie  atram  prorumpit  ad  a>thera  nubem, 
Turbine  fumantem  piceo,  et  candente  favilla; 
Attollitque  globos  llammarum.  et  sidera  lanibit. 

1 1 1 1  n i ii  scopulos,  avulsaque  viscera  montis 

Erigit  eructans,  liquefactaque  saxa  sub  auras 

Cum  gemitu  glomerat,  fundoque  cxastuat  imo.*  art.  III.  671. 

Here,  after  several  magnificent  images,  the  poet  concludes  with  per- 
sonifying the  mountain  under  this  figure,  "  eructans  viscera  cum 
gemitu,"  belching  up  its  bowels  with  a  groan  ;  which,  by  likening 
the  mountain  to  a  sick  or  drunk  person,  degrades  the  majesty  of  the 
description.  It  is  to  no  purpose  to  tell  us,  that  the  poet  here  al- 
ludes to  the  fable  of  the  giant  Enceladus  lying  under  mount  iEtna; 
and  that  he  supposes  his  motions  and  tossings  to  have  occasioned 
the  fiery  eruptions.  He  intended  the  description  of  a  sublime  ob- 
ject; and  the  natural  ideas,  raised  by  a  burning  mountain,  are  infinite- 
ly more  lofty,  than  the  belchings  of  any  giant,  how  huge  soever.  The 
debasing  effect  of  the  idea  which  is  here  presented,  will  appear  in  a 
stronger  light,  by  seeing  what  figure  it  makes  in  a  poem  of  Sir  Rich- 
ard I'jlackmore's,  who,  through  a  monstrous  perversity  of  taste,  had 
chosen  this  for  the  capital  circumstance  in  his  description,  and  there- 
by (as  Dr.  Arbuthnot  humourously  observes,  in  his  Treatise  on  the 
Art  of  Sinking,)  had  represented  the  mountain  as  inafitofthecholic 

.<Etna,  and  all  the  burning  mountains,  find 
Their  kindled  stores  with  inbred  storms  of  wind 

"  Th«  port  capacious,  and  secure  from  wind, 
Is  to  the  foot  of  thundering  iEtna  join'd. 
By  turns  a  pitchy  cloud  she  rolls  on  high, 
By  turns  hot  embers  from  her  entrails  fly, 
And  flakes  of  mounting  flames  that  lick  the  sky 
Oft  from  her  bowels  massy  rocks  are  thrown, 
And  shiver'd  by  the  force,  come  piece-meal  down. 
Oft  liquid  lakes  of  burning  sulphur  (low, 

Fed  from  the  fiery  springs  that  boti  below.  drvdew. 

[n  this  translation  of  Dryden's,  the  debasing  circumstance  to  which  I  object  in  ?b« 
original,  is,  with  propriety,  omitted. 


lect.  iv.J  SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING.  47 

Blown  ap  to  rage,  and  roaring'  out  complain, 
As  torn  with  inward  gr, pes, and  torturing  pain  ; 
Labourl..^,  they  cast  their  dreadful  vomit  round, 
And  with  their  melted  bowels  spread  the  ground. 

Such  instances  show  how  much  the  suhlime  depends  upcoajusl 
selection  of  circumstances;  and  with  how  great  care  every  circum- 
stance must  be  avoided,  which  by  bordering  in  the  least  upon  the 
mean  or  even  upon  the  gay  or  the  trifling,  alters  the  tone  of  the 
emotion. 

If  it  shall  now  be  inquired,  what  are  the  proper  sources  of  the 
sublime  ?  my  answer  is,  that  they  are  to  be  looked  for  every  where 
in  nature.  It  is  not  by  hunting  after  tropes,  and  figures,  and  rhetori- 
cal assistances,  that  we  can  expect  to  produce  it.  No :  it  stands 
clear,  for  the  most  part,  of  these  laboured  refinements  of  art.  It 
Jiust  come  unsought,  if  it  comes  at  all;  and  be  the  natural  offspring 
of  a  strong  imagination. 

Est  Deus  in  nobis  ;  agitante  calescimus  illo. 

Wherever  a  great  and  awful  object  is  presented  in  nature,  or  a 
very  magnanimous  and  exalted  affection  of  the  human  m'nd  is  dis- 
played ;  thence,  if  you  can  catch  the  impression  strongly,  and  exhibit 
it  warm  and  glowing,  you  may  draw  the  sublime.  These  are  its  only 
proper  sources.  In  judging  of  any  striking  beauty  in  composition, 
whether  it  is,  or  is  not,  to  be  referred  to  this  class,  we  must  attend  to 
the  nature  of  the  emotion  which  it  raises;  and  only,  if  it  be  of  that 
elevating,  solemn,  and  awful  kind,  which  distinguishes  this  feeling, 
we  can  pronounce  it  sublime. 

From  the  account  which  I  have  given  of  the  nature  of  the  sub- 
lime, it  clearly  follows,  that  it  is  an  emotion  which  can  never  be  long 
protracted.  The  mind, 'by  no  force  of  genius,  can  be  kept,  for  any 
considerable  time,  so  far  raised  above  its  common  tone ;  but  will,  of 
course,  relax  into  its  ordinary  situation.  Neither  are  the  abilities  of 
any  human  writer  sufficient  to  furnish  a  long  continuation  of  uninter- 
rupted sublime  ideas.  The  utmost  we  can  expect  is,  that  this  fire  of 
imagination  should  sometimes  flash  upon  us  like  lightning  from 
heaven,  and  then<lisappear.  In  Homer  and  Milton,  this  effulgence 
of  genius  breaks  forth  more  frequently,  and  with  greater  lustre,  than 
in  most  authors.  Sliakspeare  also  rises  often  into  the  true  sublime. 
But  no  author  whatever  is  sublime  throughout.  Some  indeed, 
there  are,  who,  by  a  strength  and  dignity  in  their  conceptions,  an:l 
a  current  of  high  ideas  that  runs  through  their  whole  composition, 
preserve  the  reader's  mind  always  in  a  tone  nearly  allied  to  the  sub- 
lime ;  for  which  reason  they  may,  in  a  limited  sense,  merit  the  name 
of  continued  sublime  writers ;  and,  in  this  class,  we  may  justly  place 
Demosthenes  and  Plato. 

As  for  what  is  called  the  sublime  style,  it  is,  for  the  most  part,  a 
very  bad  one  ;  and  has  no  relation,  whatever,  to  the  real  sublime 
Persons  are  apt  to  imagine,  that  magnificent  words,  accumulated 
epithets,  and  a  certain  swelling  kind  of  expression,  by  rising  above 
what  is  usual  or  vulgar,  contributes  to,  or  even  forms,  the  sublime. 
Nothing  can  be  more  false.     In  all  the  instances  of  sublime  writing, 


48  SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING.  [lect-  iv 

which  1  have  given,  nothing  of  this  kind  appears.  "God  said,  let 
u  there  be  light;  and  there  was  light."  This  is  striking  and  sublime. 
But  put  it  into  what  is  commonly  called  the  sublime  style  :  "  The 
"  sovereign  arbiter  of  nature,  by  the  potent  energy  of  a  single 
"  word,  commanded  the  light  to  exist  •"  and,  as  Boi'eau  has  well 
observed,  the  style  indeed  is  raised,  but  the  thought  is  fallen.  Id 
general,  in  all  good  writing,  the  sublime  lies  in  the  thought,  not  in 
the  words ;  and  when  the  thought  is  truly  noble,  it  will  for  the  most 
part,  clothe  itself  in  a  native  dignity  of  language.  The  sublime, 
indeed,  rejects  mean,  low,  or  trivial  expressions ;  but  it  is  equally 
an  enemy  to  such  as  are  turgid.  The  main  secret  of  being  sublime. 
is  to  aay  great  things  in  few  and  plain  words.  It  will  be  found  to 
hold  without  exception,  that  the  most  sublime  authors  are  the  sim- 
plest in  their  style  ;  and  wherever  you  find  a  writer,  who  affects  a 
more  than  ordinary  pomp  and  parade  of  words,  and  is  always  endea- 
vouring to  magnify  his  subject  by  epithets,  there  you  may  immedi- 
ately suspect,  that,  feeble  in  sentiment,  he  is  studying  to  support  him- 
self by  mere  expression. 

The  same  unfavourable  judgment  we  must  pass,  on  all  that  la- 
boured apparatus  with  which  some  writers  introduce  a  passage,  or 
description,  which  they  intend  shall  be  sublime;  calling  on  their 
readers  to  attend,  invoking  their  muse,  or  breaking  forth  into  gene- 
ral, unmeaning  exclamations,  concerning  the  greatness,  terribleness, 
or  majesty  of  the  object,  which  they  are  to  describe.  Mr.  Addison, 
in  his  Campaign,  has  fallen  into  an  error  of  this  kind,  when  about  to 
describe  the  battle  of  Blenheim. 

But  0  m_v  muse!  what  numbers  wilt  thou  find 
To  sing-  the  furious  troops  in  battle  join'd  ? 
Methinks,  I  hear  the  drum's  tumultuous  sound, 
The  victor's  shouts,  and  dying  groans,  confouud  ;  Sic. 

Introductions  of  this  kind,  are  a  forced  attempt  in  a  writer,  to  spur 
up  himself,  and  his  reader,  when  hi  finds  his  imagination  begin  to 
flag.  It  is  like  taking  artificial  spirits  in  order  to  supply  the  want 
of  such  as  are  natural.  By  this  observation,  however,  I  do  not  mean 
to  pass  a  general  censure  on  Mr.  Addison's  Campaign,  which  in 
several  places,  is  far  from  wanting  merit ;  and  in  particular,  the  no- 
ted comparison  of  his  hero  to  the  angel  who  rides  in  the  whirlwind 
and  directs  the  storm,  is  a  truly  sublime  image. 

The  faults  opposite  to  the  sublime  are  chiefly  two :  the  frigid,  and 
tha  bombast.  The  frigid  consists,  in  degrading  an  object  or  senti- 
ment, which  is  sublime  in  itself,  by  our  mean  conception  of  it;  or  by 
our  weak,  low,  and  childish  description  of  it.  This  betrays  entire 
absence,  or  at  least  great  poverty  of  genius.  Of  this  there  are  abun- 
dance of  examples,  and  these  commented  upon  with  much  humour, 
In  the  Treatise  on  the  Art  of  Sinking,  in  Dean  Swift's  works ;  the  in- 
stances taken  chiefly  from  Sir  Richard  Blackmore.  One  of  these, 
I  had  occasion  already  to  give,  in  relation  to  mount  iEtna,  and  it 
were  needless  to  produce  any  more.  The  bomV,ast  lies,  in  forcing 
an  ordinary  or  trivial  object  out  of  its  rank,  and  endeavouring  to  raise 
t  into  the  sublime ;  or,  in  attempting  to  exalt  a  sublime  object  be 


L£.lt  iv.]  SUBLIMITY  IN  WRITING.  49 

vond  all  natural  and  reasonable  bounds.  Into  tbis  erroT,  which  is 
but  too  common,  writers  of  genius  may  sometimes  fall,  by  unluckily 
losing  sight  of  the  true  point  of  the  sublime.  This  is  also  called 
fustian,  or  rant.  Shakspeare,  a  great  but  incorrect  genius,  is  not 
unexceptionable  here.  Dryden  and  Lee,  in  their  tragedies,  abound 
with  it. 

Thus  far  of  the  Sublime,  of  which  I  have  treated  fully,  because  it 
is  so  capital  an  excellency  in  fine  writing,  and  because  clear  and 
precise  ideas  on  this  head  are,  as  far  as  I  know,  not  to  be  met  with 
in  critical  writers. 

Before  I  conclude  this  lecture,  there  is  one  observation  which  1 
choose  to  make  at  this  time  ;  I  shall  make  it  once  for  all,  and  hope 
it  will  be  afterwards  remembered.  It  is  with  respect  to  the  instan- 
ces of  faults,  or  rather  blemishes  and  imperfections,  which,  as  I  have 
done  in  this  lecture,  I  shall  hereafter  continue  to  take,  when  I  can, 
from  writers  of  reputation.  I  have  not  the  least  intention  thereby 
to  disparage  their  character  m  the  general.  I  shall  have  other  oc- 
casions of  doing  equal  justice  to  their  beauties.  But  it  is  no  reflec- 
tion on  any  human  performance,  that  it  is  not  absolutely  perfect. 
The  task  would  be  much  easier  for  me,  to  collect  instances  of  faults 
from  bad  writers.  But  they  would  draw  no  attention,  when  quoted 
from  books  which  nobody  reads.  And  I  conceive,  that  the  method 
which  I  follow,  will  contribute  more  to  make  the  best  authors  be  read 
with  pleasure,  when  one  properly  distinguishes  their  beauties  from 
their  faults  ;  and  is  led  to  imitate  and  admire  only  what  is  worthy 
of  imitation  and  admiration. 


QUESTIONS. 


Having  treated  of  grandeur  or  sub- 
limity in  external  objects,  for  what 
does  the  way  seem  now  to  be  cleared? 
Why  may  the  sublime  in  writing  be 
examined  here  with  as  much  propriety 
as  in  any  subsequent  part  of  the  lec- 
tures ?  What  evidence  have  we  that 
the  sublime  has  often  been  employed 
m  a  loose  and  vague  sense  ?  Why  is 
this  mentioned  ?  What  is  the  true  sense 
of  sublime  writing'?  What  indefinite, 
and  therefore  very  improper  sense,  has 
eften  been  applied  to  it  ?  If  this  were 
correct,  what  would  be  the  conse- 
quence? By  whom  is  the  sublime  in 
this  improper  sense  often  u^ed  ?     How 


what  manner  does  he  frequently  de- 
part? How  is  this  illustrated?  What 
are  the  five  sources  of  the  sublime  point- 
ed out  by  him  ?  Of  this  plan,  what  is 
remarked ;  and  why  ?  From  this  what 
appears  ?  What  remarks  are  made  of 
Longinus,  as  a  critic  and  a  writer? 
Why  was  it  necessary  for  our  author 
to  give  his  opinion  of  his  work ;  and 
why  should  it  be  consulted?  Where 
must  the  foundation  of  the  sublime  in 
composition  be  laid  ?  When  is  the  de- 
scription not  entitled  to  come  under  this 
class  ?  What  objects  does  this  exclude  ? 
How  must  the  object  be  set  before  us, 
nxl  described?  On  what  does  this  princi- 


oes  he  set  out ;  but  from  this  view,  in  I  pally  depends?    If  his  own  feelings  be 


49 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  IV 


anguid,  what  will  be  the  consequence  ? 

Where  do  we  generally  find  the  most 
striking  instances  ot  the  sublime?  To 
whai,  are  the  early  acres  of  the  world 
peculiarly  favourable ;  why ;  and  how 
is  this  illustrated?  To  what  is  tlie 
shange  undergone  in  the  pioirress  of 
society  more  favourable  ?  In  what  wri- 
tings do  we  find  the  highest  instances 
of  the  sublime?  Of  the  descriptions  of 
the  deity,  in  them,  what  is  observed  ? 
What  illustrations  are  ffiven  from  the 
18th  Psalm,  and  from  the  prophet  Ha- 
bakkuk  ?  What  instance  is  given  by 
Longinus,  and  what  is  said  of  it?  In 
what  language  is  the  same  thought 
magnificently  amplified  by  Isaiah? 
What  passage  in  the  Psalms  deserves 
to  be  mentioned  under  this  head;  and 
"•-hat  is  said  tf  it?  To  what  does  lh>- 
merowejnuch-of  his  grandeur?  What, 
to  every  reader  of  the  Iliad,  presents  fre- 
quent instances  of  sublime  writing? 
What  often  heightens  the  maj< 
his  warlike  scenes?  Hence,  on  what 
passage  has  Longinus  bestowed  high 
and  just  commendations?  What  is  said 
of  the  passage  in  the  20th  book,  where 
all  the  gods  take  part  in  the  en 
ment?  Repeat  it.  In  Ossian,  what  are 
particularly  favourable  to  the  sublime  ? 
What  does  he  possess  ?  In  what  t\iv>  he 
not  deal ;  how  does  he  throw  forth  his 
images;  and  what  is  the  effect?  For 
what  do  we  look  amonsr  poets  of  more 
polished  times;  and  why?  Where 
dwells  the  sublime,  and  with  what 
does  it  materially  associate  itself?  Re- 
peat the  passage.  What  is  said  of  it? 
Why  have  these  instances  been  pro- 
duced? To  what  are  they  respect  i\  civ 
exposed?  Why  is  a  delect,  either  in 
conciseness  or  simplicity,  hurtful,  in  a 
peculiar  manner,  to  the  sublime?  Re- 
peat Lucan's  amplification  of  Ci 
address  to  the  pilot.  Why  is  rhyme  un- 
favourable to  the  sublime;  and  what, 
in  it,  weakens  the  native  force  of  sub- 
limity? What  tends  farther  to  enfeeble 
ft?  How  is  this  illustrated  from  Ho- 
mer's description  of  the  nod  of  Jupiter? 
Of  Pope's  translation,  what  is  remark- 
ed? 

Of  our  blank  verse,  what  is  ob- 
served? By  what  author  is  the  tallest 
proof  of  tliis  given?  Repeat  the  illus- 
tration. What  is  said  of  it  ?  What  is 
mentioned  as  another  necessary  requi- 


site to  the  sublime  ?  From  what  does  it 
arise ;  what  does  it  suppose  ;  and  why  ? 
From  what  does  it  appear  that  the 
great  art  of  the  writer,  and  the  tliiri- 
culty  of  sublime  description,  lies  here  ? 
In  order  to  render  a  storm  or  a  tempest 
sublime  in  description,  what  is  requi- 
site? Repeat  the  passage  in  which  this 
is  happily  effected  by  Virsril.  Ol*  this 
description,  what  is  said  ?  What,  when 
description  is  meant  to  be  sublime,  seems 
not  to  have  been  sufficiently  attended 
to?  When  may  a  writer's  descriptions 
have  improprieties  in  them,  and  yet  be 
beautiful;  and  why  ?  Why  is  the  case 
quite  different  with  the  sublime  ?  Of 
the  nature  of  the  emotion  aimed  at  by 
the  sublime,  what  is  observed ;  and 
why?  What  is  said  of  Milton's  descrip- 
tion of  the  battle  of  the  angels  ?  Repeat 
it.  How  has  Claudius  rendered  this 
idea  burlesque  and  ridiculous?  What 
description  in  Virgil  is  also  censurable? 
Repeat  it.  What  is  said  of  this  descrip- 
tion? How  will  the  debasing  effect  of 
the  idea  here  presented,  appear  in  a 
still  stronger  light?  What  do  such  in- 
stances show  .'  Where  are  the  proper 
sources  of  the  sublime  to  be  found  ? 
How  can  we  not  expect  to  produce  it  ? 
Of  what  does  it,  lor  the  most  part^ 
stand  clear;  how  must  it  come;  and 
of  what  must  it  be  the  natural  orl- 
spring  ?  Whence  may  we  draw  the 
sublime?  In  judging  of  any  striking 
beauty  in  composition,  to  what  must 
we  attend ;  and  when  only  can  we  pro- 
nounce it  sublime  ?  Why  cannot  the 
emotion  of  the  sublime  be  protracted  ? 
\\  hat  is  the  utmost  that  we  can  ex- 
pect ?  In  whom  does  this  effulgence 
frequently  break  forth  with  great  lus- 
tre ?  Of  the  writings  of  some  few  indi- 
viduals, such  as  Demosthenes  and  Pla- 
to, what  is  observed  ?  What  is  remark- 
ed of  what  is  called  a  sublime  style ; 
and  what  are  persons  apt  to  imagine? 
How  does  it  appear  that  notliing  can 
be  more  false  than  this  opinion  is  ?  Ot 
this  illustration,  what  has  Boileau  ob- 
served? In  general,  hi  all  good  wri- 
tings, where  does  the  sublime  lie;  and 
what  follows?  What  expressions  does 
the  sublime  reject ;  and  of  bein<r,  sub- 
lime, in  what  does  the  great  secret  lie? 
What  will  be  found  to  hold  without 
exception ;  and  what  follows?  On 
what  must    we  pass  the  same   unfa 


Z.ECT.  V.] 


QUESTIONS. 


49  b 


vourable  judgment  ?  Into  what  error 
of  this  kind  has  Mr.  Addison  fallen '? 
Repeat  the  passage.  For  what  pur- 
pose are  introductions  of  this  kind  used  ; 
and  what  are  they  like  1  By  this  ob- 
servation, what  is  not  meant ;  and 
why  ?  What  two  faults  are  the  oppo- 
eile  to  the  sublime?  In  what  does  the 
frigid  consist ;  what  does  it  betray,  and 
what  examples  are  given'?  In  what 
does  the  bombast  lie?  How  may 
writers  of  jjenius  sometimes  fall  into 
this  error  ?  What  examples  are  given  ? 
Why  has  our  author  treated  thus  ful- 
ly of  the  sublime  1  What  observation 
Joes  he  here,  once  for  all,  make  ?  Of 
what  has  he,  thereby,  no  intention  ? 
Why  does  he  not  collect  his  instances 
of  faults  from  bad  writers  ?  To  what 
does  he  think  the  method  which  he  lol- 
lows  will  contribute  ? 


ANALYSIS. 

The  term  sublime  vaguely  li^ed. 

a.  Johannes  Gulielmus  Bergenia. 

b.  Longinus. 

The  foundation  of  the  sublime. 
Instances  of  the  sublime  in  writing 

a.  The  sacred  Scriptures. 

B.  Homer's  poems. 

c.  The  works  of  Ossian. 

d.  Milton's  writings. 
Essentials  to  the  sublime. 

a.  Conciseness  and  simplicity. 

b.  Strength. 

a.  "The  proper  choice  of  cir- 
cumstances. 

b.  Instances  of  illustration. 
The  sources  of  the  sublime. 

The  nature  of  a  sublime  emotion. 

A  sublime  style. 

The  faults  opposite  to  the  sublime. 

a.  The  frigid  style. 

B.  The  bombastic  style. 


LECTURE  V. 


BEAUTY,  AND  OTHER  PLEASURES  OF  TASTE 

As  sublimity  constitutes  a  particular  character  of  composition, 
and  forms  one  of  the  highest  excellences  of  eloquence  and  of  po- 
etry, it  was  proper  to  treat  of  it  at  some  length.  It  will  not  be  ne- 
cessary to  discuss  so  particularly  all  the  other  pleasures  that  arise 
from  taste,  as  some  of  them  have  less  relation  to  our  main  subject. 
On  beauty  only  I  shall  make  several  observations,  both  as  the  sub- 
ject is  curious,  and  as  it  tends  to  improve  taste,  and  to  discover  the 
foundation  of  several  of  the  graces  of  description  and  of  poetry.* 

Beauty,  next  to  sublimity,  affords,  beyond  doubt,  the  highest 
pleasure  to  the  imagination.  The  emotion  which  it  raises,  is  very 
distinguishable  from  that  of  sublimity.  It  is  of  a  calmer  kind  ; 
more  gentle  and  soothing ;  does  not  elevate  the  mind  so  much,  but 


*  See  Hutchinson's  Inquiry  concerning-  Beauty  and  Virtue  : — Gerard  on  Taste,  chap 
iii.  : — Inquiry  into  the  Origin  of  our  Idea?  of  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful : — Elements  u/ 
Criticism,  chap.  iii.  : — Spectator,  vol.  vi.  :- -Essay  on  the  Pleasures  of  Taste. 


oO  BEAUTY.  [lect.  v 

produces  an  agreeable  serenity.  Sublimity  raises  a  feeling,  too  vio- 
lent, as  I  showed,  to  be  lasting ;  the  pleasure  arising  from  beauty 
admits  of  longer  continuance.  It  extends  also  to  a  much  greater 
variety  of  objects  than  sublimity;  to  a  variety  indeea  so  great,  that 
the  feelmgs  which  beautiful  objects  produce,  differ  considerably,  not 
in  degree  only,  but  also  in  kind,  from  one  another.  Hence,  no  word 
in  the  language  is  used  in  a  more  vague  signification  than  beauty. 
It  is  applied  to  almost  every  external  object  that  pleases  the  eye,  or 
ihe  ear  ;  to  a  great  number  of  the  graces  of  writing  ;  to  many  dis- 
positions of  the  mind  ;  nay,  to  several  objects  of  mere  abstract  sci- 
ence. We  talk  currently  of  a  beautiful  tree  or  flower  ;  a  beautiful 
poem  ;  a  beautiful  character  ;  and  a  beautiful  theorem  in  mathe- 
matics. 

Hence  we  may  easily  perceive,  that,  among  so  great  a  variety  oi 
objects,  to  find  out  some  one  quality  in  which  they  all  agree,  and 
which  is  the  foundation  of  that  agreeable  sensation  they  all  raise, 
must  be  a  very  difficult,  if  not,  more  probably,  a  vain  attempt.  Ob- 
jects denominated  beautiful,  are  so  different,  as  to  please,  not  in 
virtue  of  any  one  quality  common  to  them  all,  but  by  means  of  se- 
veral different  principles  in  human  nature.  The  agreeable  emotion 
which  they  all  raise,  is  somewhat  of  the  same  nature;  and  therefore, 
has  the  common  name  of  beauty  given  to  it ;  but  it  is  raised  by 
different  causes. 

Hypotheses,  however,  have  been  framed  by  ingenious  men,  for  as 
signing  the  fundamental  quality  of  beauty  in  all  objects.  In  parti 
cular,  uniformity  amidst  variety,  has  been  insisted  on  as  this  funda 
mental  quality.  For  the  beauty  of  many  figures,  I  admit  that  this 
accounts  in  a  satisfactory  manner.  But  when  we  endeavour  to  apply 
this  principle  to  beautiful  objects  of  some  other  kind,  as  to  colour, 
for  instance,  or  motion,  we  shall  soon  find  that  it  has  no  place.  And 
even  in  external  figured  objects  it  does  not  hold,  that  their  beauty 
is  in  proportion  to  their  mixture  of  variety  with  uniformity ;  seeing 
many  please  us  as  highly  beautiful,  which  have  almost  no  variety  at 
all,  and  others,  which  are  various  to  a  degree  of  intricacy.  Laying 
systems  of  this  kind,  therefore,  aside,  what  I  now  propose  is,  to  give 
an  enumeration  of  several  of  those  classes  of  objects  in  which  beau- 
ty most  remarkably  appears  ;  and  to  point  out,  as  far  as  I  can,  the 
separate  principles  of  beauty  in  each  of  them. 

Colour  affords,  perhaps,  the  simplest  instance  of  beauty,  and 
therefore  the  fittest  to  begin  with.  Here,  neither  variety,  nor  uni- 
formity, nor  any  other  principle  that  I  know,  can  be  assigned  as  the 
foundation  of  beauty.  We  can  refer  it  to  no  other  cause  but  the 
structure  of  the  eye,  which  determines  us  to  receive  certain  modifi 
cations  of  tne  rays  of  light  with  more  pleasure  than  others.  And  we 
see  accordingly,  that,  as  the  organ  of  sensation  varies  in  different 
persons,  they  have  their  different  favourite  colours.  It  is  probable, 
that  association  of  ideas  has  influence,  in  some  cases,  on  the  plea- 
sure which  we  receive  from  colours.  Green,  for  instance,  may  ap- 
pear more  beautiful,  by  being  connected  in  our  ideas  with  rural 
l>roswots  and  srenes:  whitp  with  ;nnocence;  blue,  with  the  sereni- 


lect.  v.]  BEAUTY.  51 

cy  of  the  sky.  Independent  of  associations  of  this  kind,  all  that 
we  can  farther  observe  concerning  colours  is,  that  those  chosen  for 
beauty  are,  generally,  delicate,  rather  than  glaring.  Such  are  those 
paintings  with  which  nature  hath  ornamented  some  of  her  works, 
and  which  art  strives  in  vain  to  imitate ;  as  the  feathers  of  several 
kinds  of  birds,  the  leaves  of  flowers,  and  the  fine  variation  of  co- 
lours exhibited  by  the  sky  at  the  rising  and  setting  of  the  sun.  These 
present  to  us  the  highest  instances  of  the  beauty  of  colouring;  and 
have  accordingly  been  the  favourite  subjects  of  poetical  description 
in  all  countries. 

From  colour  we  proceed  to  figure,  which  opens  to  us  forms  of 
beauty  more  complex  and  diversified.  Regularity  first  occurs  to 
be  noticed  as  a  source  of  beauty.  By  a  regular  figure,  is  meant,  one 
which  we  perceive  to  be  formed  according  to  some  certain  rule, 
and  not  left  arbitrary,  or  loose,  in  the  construction  of  its  parts. 
Thus,  a  circle,  a  square,  a  triangle,  or  a  hexagon,  please  the  eye,  by 
their  regularity,  as  beautiful  figures.  We  must  not,  however,  con- 
clude, that  all  figures  please  in  proportion  to  their  regularity ;  or  that 
regularity  is  the  sole,  or  the  chief,  foundation  of  beauty  in  figure. 
On  the  contrary,  a  certain  graceful  variety  is  found  to  be  a  much 
more  powerful  principle  of  beauty,  and  is  therefore  studied  a  great 
deal  more  than  regularity,  in  all  works  that  are  designed  merely  to 
please  the  eye.  1  am,  indeed,  inclined  to  think,  that  regularity  ap- 
pears beautiful  to  us,  chiefly,  if  not  only,  on  account  of  its  sugges- 
ting the  ideas  of  fitness,  propriety,  and  use,  which  have  always  a 
greater  connexion  with  orderly  and  proportioned  forms,  than  with 
those  which  appear  not  constructed  according  to  any  certain  rule. 
It  is  clear,  that  nature,  who  is  undoubtedly  the  most  graceful  artist, 
hath,  in  all  her  ornamental  works,  pursued  variety  with  an  apparent 
neglect  of  regularity,  Cabinets,  doors,  and  windows,  are  made  after 
a  regular  form,  in  cubes  and  parallelograms,  with  exact  propor- 
tion of  parts;  and  by  being  so  formed  they  please  the  eye:  for  this 
good  reason,  that,  being  works  of  use,  they  are,  by  such  figures,  the 
better  suited  to  the  ends  for  which  they  were  designed.  But  plants, 
flowers,  and  leaves,  are  full  of  variety  and  diversity.  A  straight  ca- 
nal is  an  insipid  figure,  in  comparison  of  the  meanders  of  rivers. 
Cones  and  pyramids  are  beautiful;  but  trees  growing  in  their  natural 
wilderness,  are  infinitely  more  beautiful  than  when  trimmed  into  py- 
ramids and  cones.  The  apartments  of  a  house  must  be  regular  iu 
their  disposition,  for  the  conveniency  of  its  inhabitants  ;  but  a  gar 
den  which  is  designed  merely  for  beauty,  would  be  exceedingly  dis 
gusting,  if  it  had  as  much  uniformity  and  order  in  its  parts  as  > 
dwelling-house. 

Mr.  Hogarth,  in  his  Analysis  of  Beauty,  has  observed,  that  figure' 
bounded  by  curve  lines  are,  in  general,  more  beautiful  than  those 
bounded  by  straight  lines  and  angles.  He  pitches  upon  two  lines., 
on  which,  according  to  him,  the  beauty  of  figure  principally  depends; 
and  he  has  illustrated  and  supported  his  doctrine,  by  a  surprising 
number  of  instances.  The  one  is  the  waving  line,  or  a  curve  bend- 
ing backwards  and  forwards,  somewhat  in  the  form  of  the  letter  S 
H 


52  BEAUTY.  (lect.  v 

This  he  calls  the  line  of  beauty ;  and  shows  how  often  it  is  found 
'n  shells,  flowers,  and  such  other  ornamental  works  of  nature  ;  as  is 
common  also  in  the  figures  designed  by  painters  and  sculptors,  for 
the  purpose  of  decoration.  The  other  line,  which  he  calls  the  line 
of  grace,  is  the  former  waving  curve,  twisted  round  some  solid  body. 
The  curling  worm  of  a  common  jack  is  one  of  the  instances  he 
gives  of  it.  Twisted  pillars,  and  twisted  horns,  also  exhibit  it.  In 
all  the  instances  which  he  mentions,  variety  plainly  appears  to  be  so 
material  a  principle  of  beauty,  that  he  seems  not  to  err  much  wben 
he  defines  the  art  of  drawing  pleasing  forms,  to  be  the  art  of  varying 
well.  For  the  curve  line,  so  much  the  favourite  of  painters,  derives, 
according  to  him,  its  chief  advantage,  from  its  perpetual  bending 
and  variation  from  the  stiff  regularity  of  the  straight  line. 

Motion  furnishes  another  source  of  beauty,  distinct  from  figure 
Motion  of  itself  is  pleasing;  and  bodies  in  motion  are,  "ceteris 
paribus,"  preferred  to  those  in  rest.  It  is,  however,  only  gentle  mo- 
tion that  belongs  to  the  beautiful;  for  when  it  is  very  swift,  or  very 
forcible,  such  as  that  of  a  torrent,  it  partakes  of  the  sublime.  The 
motion  of  a  bird  gliding  through  the  air,  is  extremely  beautiful ;  the 
swiftness  with  which  lightning  darts  through  the  heavens,  is  magnifi- 
cent and  astonishing.  And  here,  it  is  proper  to  observe,  that  the 
sensations  of  sublime  and  beautiful  are  not  always  distinguished  by 
very  distant  boundaries;  but  are  capable,  in  several  instances,  of 
approaching  towards  each  other.  Thus,  a  smooth  running  stream 
is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  objects  in  nature:  as  it  swells  gradually 
into  a  great  river,  the  beautiful,  by  degrees,  is  lost  in  the  sublime. 
A  young  tree  is  a  beautiful  object ;  a  spreading  ancient  oak,  is  a 
venerable  and  a  grand  one.  The  calmness  of  a  fine  morning  is 
beautiful;  the  universal  stillness  of  the  evening  is  highly  sublime. 
But  to  return  to  the  beauty  of  motion,  it  will  be  found,  I  think,  to 
hold  very  generally,  that  motion  in  a  straight  line  is  not  so  beautiful 
as  in  an  undulating  waving  direction;  and  motion  upwards  is,  com- 
monly too,  more  agreeable  than  motion  downwards.  The  easy  cur- 
ling motion  of  flame  and  smoke  may  be  instanced,  as  an  object 
singularly  agreeable :  and  here  Mr.  Hogarth's  waving  line  recurs 
upon  us  as  a  principle  of  beauty.  That  artist  observes,  very  ingeni- 
ously, that  all  the  common  and  necessary  motions  for  the  business  of 
life,  are  performed  by  men  in  straight  or  plain  lines :  but  that  all 
the  graceful  and  ornamental  movements  are  made  in  waving  lines: 
an  observation  not  unworthy  of  being  attended  to,  by  all  who  study 
•  the  grace  of  gesture  and  action. 

Though  colour,  figure,  and  motion,  be  separate  principles  of 
bfc&nty  ;  yet  in  many  beautiful  objects  they  all  meet,  and  thereby 
render  the  beauty  both  greater,  and  more  complex.  Thus,  in  flow- 
ers, trees,  animals,  we  are  entertained  at  once  with  the  delicacy  of 
the  colour,  with  the  gracefulness  of  the  figure,  and  sometimes  also 
with  the  motion  of  the  object.  Although  each  of  these  produce  a 
separate  agreeable  sensation,  yet  they  are  of  such  a  similar  nature, 
as  readily  to  mix  and  blend  in  one  general  perception  of  beauty, 
which  we  ascribe  to  the  whole  object  as  its  cause :  for  beauty  is  al 


lect.  v.J  BEAUTY.  53 

ways  conceived  oy  us,  as  something  residing  in  the  object  which 
raises  the  pleasant  sensation;  a  sort  of  glory  which  dwells  upon,  and 
invests  it.  Perhaps  the  most  complete  assemblage  of  beautiful  ob- 
jects that  can  any  where  be  found,  is  presented  by  a  rich  natural 
landscape,  where  there  is  a  sufficient  variety  of  objects;  fields  in 
verdure,  scattered  trees  and  flowers,  running  water,  and  animals 
grazing.  If  to  these  be  joined  some  of  the  productions  of  art, 
which  suit  such  a  scene:  as  a  bridge  with  arches  over  a  river,  smoke 
rising  from  cottages  in  the  midst  of  trees,  and  the  distant  view  of  a 
fine  building  seen  by  the  rising  sun  ;  we  then  enjoy,  in  the  highest 
perfection,  that  gay,  cheerful,  and  placid  sensation  which  character- 
izes beauty.  To  have  an  eye  and  a  taste  formed  for  catching  the  pe- 
culiar beauties  of  such  scenes  as  these,  is  a  necessary  requisite  for 
all  who  attempt  poetical  description. 

The  beauty  of  the  human  countenance  is  more  complex  than  any 
that  we  have  yet  considered.  It  includes  the  beauty  of  colour,  ari- 
sing from  the  delicate  shades  of  the  complexion;  and  the  beauty  of 
figure,  arising  from  the  lines  which  form  the  different  features  of  the 
face.  But  the  chief  beauty  of  the  countenance  depends  upon  a 
mysterious  expression,  which  it  conveys,  of  the  qualities  of  the  mind; 
of  good  sense,  or  good  humour  ;  of  sprightliness,  candour,  benevo- 
lence, sensibility,  or  other  amiable  dispositions.  How  it  comes  to 
pass  that  a  certain  conformation  of  features  is  connected  in  our  idea 
with  certain  moral  qualities;  whether  we  are  taught  by  instinct,  or 
by  experience,  to  form  this  connexion,  and  to  read  the  mind  in  the 
countenance,  belongs  not  to  us  now  to  inquire,  nor  is  indeed  easy  to 
resolve.  The  fact,  is  certain,  and  acknowledged,  that  what  gives  the 
human  countenance  its  most  distinguishing  beauty,  is  what  is  called 
its  expression;  or  an  image,  which  it  is  conceived  to  show  of  internal 
moral  dispositions. 

This  leads  us  to  observe,  that  there  are  certain  qualities  of  the 
mind  which,  whether  expressed  in  the  countenance,  orby  words,  or 
by  actions,  always  raise  in  us  a  feeling  similar  to  that  of  beauty. 
There  are  two  great  classes  of  moral  qualities ;  one  is  of  the  high  and 
the  great  virtues,  which  require  extraordinary  efforts,  and  turn  upon 
dangers  and  sufferings ;  as  heroism,  magnanimity,  contempt  of  plea- 
sures, and  contempt  of  death,  These,  as  I  have  observed  in  a  for- 
mer lecture,  excite  in  the  spectator  an  emotion  of  sublimity  and 
grandeur.  The  other  class  is  generally  of  the  social  virtues,  and 
Mich  as  are  of  a  softer  and  gentler  kind  ;  as  compassion,  mildness, 
friendship,  and  generosity.  These  raise  in  the  beholder  a  sensation 
of  pleasure,  so  much  akin  to  that  produced  by  beautiful  external 
objects,  that,  though  of  a  more  dignified  nature,  it  may,  without 
impropriety,  be  classed  under  the  same  head. 

A  species  of  beauty,  distinct  from  any  I  have  yet  mentioned,  ari- 
ses from  design  or  art;  or  in  other  words,  from  the  perception  Oj 
means  being  adapted  to  an  end ;  or  the  parts  of  any  thing  1  ,eing  web 
fitted  to  answer  the  design  of  the  whole.  When,  in  considering  the 
structure  of  a  tree  or  a  plant,  we  observe  how  all  the  parts,  the  roots 
the  stem,  the  bark,  and  the  leaves,  are  suited  to  the  growth  and 


54  BEAUTY.  [lect.  ▼ 

nutriment  of  the  whole;  much  more  when  we  survey  all  the  parts 
and  members  of  a  living  animal,  or  when  we  examine  any  of  the 
curious  works  of  art;  such  as  a  clock,  a  ship,  or  any  nice  machine* 
the  pleasure  which  we  have  in  the  survey,  is  wholly  founded  on  this 
sense  of  beauty.  It  is  altogether  different  from  the  perception  of 
beauty  produced  by  colour,  figure,  variety,  or  any  of  the  causes  for- 
merly mentioned.  When  I  look  at  a  watch,  for  instance,  the  case 
of  it,  if  finely  engraved,  and  of  curious  workmanship,  strikes  me  as 
beautiful  in  the  former  sense;  bright  colour,  exquisite  polish,  figures 
finely  raised  and  turned.  But  when  I  examine  the  spring  and  the 
wheels,  and  praise  the  beauty  of  the  internal  machinery,  my  pleasure 
then  arises  wholly  from  the  view  of  that  admirable  art,  with  which 
so  many  various  and  complicated  parts  are  made  to  unite  for  one 
purpose. 

This  sense  of  beauty,  in  fitness  and  design,  has  an  extensive  influ- 
ence over  many  of  our  ideas.  It  is  the  foundation  of  the  beauty  which 
we  discover  in  the  proportion  of  doors,  windows,  arches,  pillars,  and 
all  the  orders  of  architecture.  Let  the  ornaments  of  a  building  be  ever 
so  fine  and  elegant  in  themselves,  yet,  if  they  interfere  with  this  sense 
of  fitness  and  design,  they  lose  their  beauty,  and  hurt  the  eye,  like 
disagreeable  objects.  Twisted  columns,  for  instance,  are  undoubted- 
ly ornamental;  but  as  they  have  an  appearance  of  weakness,  they  al- 
ways displease  when  they  are  made  use  of  to  support  any  part  of  a 
building  that  is  massy,  and  that  seems  to  require  a  more  substantial 
prop.  We  cannot  look  upon  any  work  whatever,  without  being  led, 
by  a  natural  association  of  ideas,  to  think  of  its  end  and  design,  and 
of  course  to  examine  the  propriety  of  its  parts,  in  relation  to  this 
design  and  end.  When  their  propriety  is  clearly  discerned,  the  work 
seems  always  to  have  some  beauty;  but  when  there  is  a  total  want  of 
proprietv,  it  never  fails  of  appearing  deformed.  Our  sense  of  fitness 
and  design,therefore,  is  so  powerful,  and  holds  so  high  a  rank  among 
our  perceptions,  as  to  regulate,  in  a  great  measure,  our  other  ideas  of 
beauty :  an  observation  which  I  the  rather  make,  as  it  is  of  the  utmost 
importance,  that  all  who  study  composition  should  carefully  attend 
to  it.  For,  in  an  epic  poem,  a  history,  an  oration,  or  any  work  of  ge- 
nius, we  always  require,  as  we  do  in  other  works,  a  fitness,  or  adjust- 
ment of  means  to  the  end  which  the  author  is  supposed  to  have  in 
view.  Let  his  descriptions  be  ever  so  rich,  or  his  figures  ever  so  ele- 
gant, yet,  if  they  are  out  of  place,  if  they  are  not  proper  parts  of  that 
whole,  if  they  suit  not  the  main  design,  they  lose  all  their  beauty,  nay, 
from  beauties  they  are  converted  into  deformities.  Such  power  has 
our  sense  of  fitness  and  congruity,  to  produce  a  total  transformation 
of  an  object  whose  appearance  otherwise  would  have  been  beautiful, 

After  having  mentioned  so  many  various  species  of  beauty,  it  now 
only  remains  to  take  notice  of  beauty  as  it  is  applied  to  writing  or  d  is- 
course;  a  term  commonly  used  in  a  sense  altogether  loose  and  unde- 
termined. For  it  is  applied  to  all  that  pleases,  either  in  style  or  sen- 
timent, from  whatever  principle  that  pleasure  flows;  and  a  beautiful 
poem  or  Oration  means,  in  common  language,  no  other  than  a  good 
one,  or  one  well  composed.     In  this  sense,  it  is  plain,  the  worn  isal 


lect.  v.]  PLEASURES  OF  TASTE.  55 

together  indefinite,  and  points  at  no  particular  species  or  kind  of  beau- 
ty. There  is,  however,  another  sense,  somewhat  more  definite,  in 
which  beauty  of  writing  characterizes  a  particular  manner ;  when  it  is 
used  to  signify  a  certain  grace  and  amenity  in  the  turn  either  of  style 
or  sentiment  for  which  some  authors  have  been  peculiarly  distin- 
guished. In  this  sense,  it  denotes  a  manner  neither  remarkably  sub- 
lime, nor  vehemently  passionate,  nor  uncommonly  sparkling ;  but 
such  as  raises  in  the  reader  an  emotion  of  the  gentle,  placid  kind, 
similar  to  what  is  raised  by  the  contemplation  of  beautiful  objects  in 
nature;  which  neither  lifts  the  mind  very  high,  nor  agitates  it  very 
much,  but  diffuses  over  the  imagination  an  agreeable  and  pleasing 
serenity.  Mr.  Addison  is  a  writer  altogether  of  this  character ;  and  is 
one  of  the  most  proper  and  precise  examples  that  can  be  given  of  it. 
Fenelon,  the  author  of  the  Adventures  of  Telemachus,  may  be  given 
as  another  example.  Virgil  too,  though  very  capable  of  rising  on  oc- 
casions into  the  sublime,  yet,  in  his  general  manner,  is  distinguished 
by  the  character  of  beauty  and  grace,  rather  than  of  sublimity.  Among 
orators,  Cicero  has  more  of  the  beautiful  than  Demosthenes,  whose 
genius  led  him  wholly  towards  vehemence  and  strength. 

This  much  it  is  sufficient  to  have  said  upon  the  subject  of  beauty. 
We  have  traced  it  through  a  variety  of  forms ;  as  next  to  sublimity, 
it  is  the  most  copious  source  of  the  pleasures  of  taste;  and  as  the 
consideration  of  the  different  appearances,  and  principles  of  beauty, 
tends  to  the  improvement  of  taste  in  many  subjects. 

But  it  is  not  only  by  appearing  under  the  forms  of  sublime  or 
beautiful,  that  objects  delight  the  imagination.  From  several  other 
principles  also,  they  derive  their  power  of  giving  it  pleasure. 

Novelty,  for  instance,  has  been  mentioned  by  Mr.  Addison,  and 
by  every  writer  on  this  subject.  An  object  which  has  no  merit  to 
recommend  it,  except  its  being  uncommon  or  new,  by  means  of 
this  quality  alone,  produces  in  the  mind  a  vivid  and  an  agreeable 
emotion.  Hence  that  passion  of  curiosity,  which  prevails  so  gene- 
rally among  mankind.  Objects  and  ideas  which  have  been  long 
familiar,  make  too  faint  an  impression  to  give  an  agreeable  exercise 
to  our  faculties.  New  and  strange  objects  rouse  the  mind  from  its 
dormant  state  by  giving  it  a  quick  and  pleasing  impulse.  Hence, 
in  a  great  measure,  the  entertainment  afforded  us  by  fiction  and 
romance.  The  emotion  raised  by  novelty  is  of  a  more  lively  and 
pungent  nature,  than  that  produced  by  beauty;  but  much  shorter 
in  its  continuance.  For  if  the  object  have  in  itself  no  charms  to 
hold  our  attention,  the  shining  gloss  thrown  upon  it  by  novelty  soon 
wears  off. 

Besides  novelty,  imitation  is  another  source  of  pleasuio  io  taste. 
This  gives  rise  to  what  Mr.  Addison  terms,  the  secondary  pleasures 
of  imagination ;  which  fonn,  doubtless,  a  very  extensive  class.  For 
all  imitation  affords  some  pleasure ;  not  only  the  imitation  of  beauti- 
ful or  great  objects,  by  recalling  the  original  ideas  of  beauty  or 
grandeur  which  such  objects  themselves  exhibited;  but  even  objects 
which  have  neither  beauty  nor  grandeur,  nay,  some  which  are  terri- 
UIp  or  deformed,  please  us  in  a  secondary  or  represented  view. 


46  IMITATION  AND  DESCRIPTION.         [lect.  v. 

The  pleasures  of  melody  and  harmony  belong  also  to  taste:  there 
is  no  agreeable  sensation  we  receive  either  from  beauty  or  snblimity, 
but  what  is  capable  of  being  heightened  by  the  power  of  musical 
sound.  Hence  the  delight  of  poetical  numbers,  and  even  of  the 
more  concealed  and  looser  measures  of  prose.  Wit,  humour,  and 
ridicule,  likewise  open  a  variety  of  pleasures  of  taste,  quite  distinct 
from  any  that  we  have  yet  considered. 

At  present  it  is  not  necessary  to  pursue  any  farther  the  subject  ct 
the  pleasures  of  taste.  I  have  opened  some  of  the  general  princi  • 
pies  ;  it  is  time  now  to  make  the  application  to  our  chief  subject 
If  the  question  be  put,  to  what  class  of  those  pleasures  of  taste  which 
1  have  enumerated,  that  pleasure  is  to  be  referred  which  we  receive 
from  poetry,  eloquence,  or  fine  writing?  My  answer  is,  not  to  any 
one,  but  to  them  all.  This  singular  advantage,  writing  and  discourse 
possess,  that  they  encompass  so  large  and  rich  a  field  on  all  sides, 
and  have  power  to  exhibit,  in  great  perfection,  not  a  single  set  of 
objects  only,  but  almost  the  whole  of  those  which  give  pleasure  to 
taste  and  imagination  ;  whether  that  pleasure  arise  from  sublimity, 
from  beauty  in  its  different  forms,  from  design,  and  art,  from  moral 
sentiment,  from  novelty,  from  harmony,  from  wit,  humour,  and  ridi- 
cule. To  whichsoever  of  these  the  peculiar  bent  of  a  person's  taste 
lies,  from  some  writer  or  other,  he  has  it  always  in  his  power  to  re- 
ceive the  gratification  of  it. 

Now  this  high  power  which  eloquence  and  poetry  possess,  of  sup- 
plying taste  and  imagination  with  such  a  wide  circle  of  pleasures, 
they  derive  altogether  from  their  having  a  greater  capacity  of  imita- 
tion and  description  than  is  possessed  by  any  other  art.  Of  all  the 
means  which  human  ingenuity  has  contrived  for  recalling  the  images 
of  real  objects,  and  awakening,  by  representation,  similar  emotions 
to  those  which  are  raised  by  the  original,  none  is  so  full  and  exten- 
sive as  that  which  is  executed  by  words  and  writing.  Through  the 
assistance  of  this  happy  invention,  there  is  nothing,  either  in  the 
natural  or  moral  world,  but  what  can  be  represented  and  set  before 
the  mind,  in  colours  very  strong  and  lively.  Hence  it  is  usual  among 
critical  writers,  to  speak  of  discourse  as  the  chief  of  all  the  imitative 
or  mimetic  arts;  they  compare  it  with  painting  and  with  sculpture, 
and  in  many  respects  prefer  it  justly  before  them. 

This  style  was  first  introduced  by  Aristotle  in  his  poetics;  and, 
since  his  time,  has  acquired  a  general  currency  among  modern  au- 
thors. But  as  it  is  of  consequence  to  introduce  as  much  precision 
as  possible  into  critical  language,  I  mtut  observe,  that  this  manner 
of  speaking  is  not  accurate.  Neither  discourse  in  general,  nor  po- 
etry in  particular,  can  be  called  altogether  imitative  arts.  We  must 
distinguish  betwixt  imitation  and  description,  which  are  ideas  that 
should  not  be  confounded.  Imitation  i3  performed  by  means  of 
somewhat  that  has  a  natural  likeness  and  resemblance  to  the  thing 
imitated,  and  of  consequence  is  understood  by  all :  such  are  statues 
and  pictures.  Description,  again,  is  the  raising  in  the  mind  the 
conception  of  an  object  by  means  of  some  arbitrary  or  instituted 
symbols,  understood  only  by  those  who  agree  in  the  institution  of 


lect.  v.]      IMITATION  AND  DESCRIPTION.  5? 

them ;  such  are  words  and  writing.  Words  have  no  natural  re 
semblance  to  the  ideas  or  objects  which  they  are  employed  to  si* 
nify  ;  but  a  statue  or  a  picture  has  a  natural  likeness  to  the  original 
And  therefore  imitation  and  description  differ  considerably  in  theii 
nature  from  each  other. 

As  far,  indeed,  as  the  poet  introduces  into  his  work  persons 
actually  speaking  ;  and,  by  the  words  which  he  puts  into  theii 
mouths,  represents  the  discourse  which  they  might  be  supposed 
to  hold  ;  so  far  his  art  may  more  accurately  be  called  imitative; 
and  this  is  the  case  in  all  dramatic  composition.  But,  in  narrative 
or  descriptive  works,  it  can  with  no  propriety  be  called  so.  Who 
for  instance,  would  call  Virgil's  description  of  a  tempest,  in  the  first 
JEneid,  an  imitation  of  a  storm?  If  we  heard  of  the  imitation  of  t 
battle,  we  might  naturally  think  of  some  mock  fight,  or  representa 
tion  of  a  battle  on  the  stage,  but  would  never  apprehend,  that  iy 
meant  one  of  Homer's  descriptions  in  the  Iliad.  I  admit,  at  the 
same  time,  that  imitation  and  description  agree  in  their  principa' 
effect,  of  recalling,  by  external  signs,  the  ideas  of  things  which  w« 
do  not  see.  But  though  in  this  they  coincide,  yet  it  should  not  bt 
forgotten,  that  the  terms  themselves  are  not  synonymous  ;  that  the} 
import  different  means  of  effecting  the  same  end  ;  and  of  courst 
make  different  impressions  on  the  mind.* 

Whether  we  consider  poetry  in  particular,  and  discourse  in  gene 
ral,  as  imitative  or  descriptive  ;  it  is  evident  that  their  whole  pow 
er,  in  recalling  the  impressions  of  real  objects,  is  derived  from  the 
significancy  of  words.  As  their  excellency  flows  altogether  from 
tins  source,  we  must,  in  order  to  make  way  for  further  inquiries, 


*  Though  in  the  execution  of  particular  parts,  poetry  is  certainly  descriptive  rather 
than  imitative,  yet  there  is  a  qualified  sense  in  which  poetry,  iu  the  general,  may  be 
termed  an  imitative  art.  The -subject  of  the  poet  (as  Dr.  Gerard  has  shown  in  the  ap- 
pendix to  his  Essay  on  Taste)  is  intended  to  be  an  imitation,  not  of  things  really  exist- 
ing, but  of  the  course  of  nature :  that  is,  a  feigned  representation  of  such  events,  01 
such  scenes,  as  though  thev  never  had  a  being,  yet  might  have  existed ;  and  which, 
therefore,  by  their  probability,  bear  a  resemblance  to  nature.  It  was  probably  in 
this  sense,  that  Aristotle  termed  poetry  a  mimetic  art.  How  far  either  the  imitation 
or  the  description  which  poetry  employs,  is  superior  to  the  imitative  powers  of  paint 
ing  and  music,  is  well  shown  bv  Mr.  Harris,  in  his  treatise  on  music,  painting,  and 
poetry.  The  chief  advantage  which  poetry,  or  discourse  in  general,  enjoys,  is,  thai 
whereas,  bv  the  nature  of  his  art,  the  painter  is  confined  to  the  representation  of  a  sin- 
gle moment,  writing  and  discourse  can  trace  a  transaction  through  its  whole  pro- 
•gress  That  moment,  indeed,  which  the  painter  pitches  upon  for  the'subject  of  his 
picture,  he  may  be  said  to  exhibit  with  more  advantage  xhan  the  poet  or  orator  ;  inas- 
much as  he  sets  before  us,  in  one  view,  all  the  minute  concurring  circumstances  of 
the  event  which  happens  in  one  individual  point  of  time,  as  they  appear  in  nature  > 
while  discourse  is  obliged  to  exhibit  them  in  succession,  and  by  means  of  a  detail 
which  is  in  danger  of  becoming  tedious,  in  order  to  be  clear  ;  or,  if  r  jt  if  ."<ous,  is  in 
danger  of  being  obscure.  But  to  that  point  of  time  which  he  has  chosen,  the  pamtei 
being  entirely  confined,  he  cannot  exhibit  various  stages  of  the  same  action  or  event ; 
and  he  is  subject  to  this  farther  defect,  that  he  can  only  exhibit  objects  as  tbey  appear 
to  the  eye,  and  can  very  imperfectly  delineate  characters  3110"  stntiiucuij,  whici.  o.ns 
She  noblest  subjects  of  imitation  or  description.  The  power  of  rep'  'senting  hese 
with  full  advantage,  gives  a  high  superiority  to  discourse  and  v  1  iting,  ;  bove  all < thet 
imitative  arts. 

8 


58 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect. 


begin  at  this  fountain-head.  I  shall,  therefore,  in  the  next  lecture, 
enter  upon  the  consideration  of  language  :  of  the  origin,  the  pro- 
gress, and  construction  of  which,  I  purpose  to  treat  at  some  length. 


QUESTIONS. 


Why   was  it  necessary  to  treat  of 
sublimity  at  some  length?  Why  will 

it  not  be  necessary  to  discuss,  so  parti- 
cularly, all  the  other  pleasures  that 
arise  from  taste  ?  Why  are  several  ob- 
servations made  on  beauty  ?  Beauty, 
next  to  sublimity,  affording  the  highest 
pleasure  to  the  imagination,  what  is 
the  nature  of  the  emotion  which  it 
raises  ?  To  how  great  a  variety  of  ob- 
jects does  it  extend  ;  and  hence  what 
follows?  To  what  is  it  applied;  and  of 
what  do  we  currently  talk?  Hence, 
what  may  we  easily  perceive  ?  By 
what  means  do  objects,  denominated 
beautiful,  please?  Why  has  the 
agreeable  emotion  which  they  all 
raise,  the  common  name  of  beauty 
•riven  to  it  ?  For  assigning  what,  have 
hypotheses  been  framed  ?  What  has 
been  insisted  on,  as  the  fundamental 
quality  of  beauty?  When  does  this 
principle  apply ;  and  when  does  it  not  ? 
Why  does  not  this  principle  hold  in  ex- 
ternal figured  objects?  Laying  sys- 
tems of  this  kind,  therefore,  aside,  what 
is  proposed  ?  What  affords  the  simplest 
Instance  of  beauty  ?  Here,  what  can- 
not be  assigned  as  the  fundamental 
quality  of  beauty  ?  To  what  only  can 
we  refer  it ;  and  what  do  we  accord- 
ingly see?  What,  is  it  probable,  in 
some  cases,  has  some  influence;  and 
what  examples  are  given?  Indepen- 
dent of  associations  of  this  land,  what  is 
all  that  can  be  farther  observed  con- 
cerning colours  ?  What  instances  are 
mentioned?  Of  these,  what  is  said? 
From  colour,  to  what  do  we  proceed ; 
and  of  its  beauty,  what  is  observed? 
In  it,  wha*-  *rst  occurs  to  be  noticed  as 
a  source  of  beauty ;  and  by  it  what  is 
meant?  What  examples  are  given? 
What  must  we  not,  however,  conclude  ? 
On  the  contrary,  what  is  a  more  pow- 
erful principle  of  beauty ;  and  where  is  it 
studied?  Why  is  our  author  inclined  to 
think  regularity  appears  beautiful ;  and 


with  what  have  these  always  a  great 
connexion?  Of  the  course  pursued  liy 
nature,  what  is  clear?  Ol"  cabinets, 
doors,  and  windows,  what  is  observed; 

and  why  do  they  please?  Of  a  straight 
canal,  of  cones  and  pyramids,  and  ol 
the  apartments  of  a  house,  what  is 
said  ?  What  has  Mr.  Hogarth,  in  his 
Analysis  of  Beauty,  observed  ?  Upon 
what  two  lines  does  he  pitch;  and 
what  does  he  call  them  ?  In  what  is  the 
line  of  beauty  found  ;  and  in  what,  the 
line  of  grace?  How  does  he  define  the 
art  cf  drawing  pleasing  forms;  and 
why?  What  furnishes  another  source 
of  beauty;  and  what  is  said  of  it? 
What  motion  only  belongs  to  the  beau- 
tiful;  and  why?  How  is  this  illustra- 
ted? Here,  what  is  it  proper  to  ob- 
serve? How  is  this  observation  illus- 
trated from  a  yoimg  tree,  and  an  an- 
cient oak ;  and  from  the  morning  and 
evening?  In  the  beauty  of  motion, 
what,  in  general,  will  be  found  to  hold 
true  ?  What  may  be  instanced  as  an 
object  sinirularly  agreeable?  Of  the 
common  and  necessary  motions  for  the 
business  of  life,  and  of  the  graceful  and 
ornamental  movements,  what  does  Mr. 
Hogarth  very  ingeniously  observe  ?  Of 
the  union  of  colour,  figure,  and  motion, 
in  many  beautiful  objects,  what  is  ob- 
served; and  how  is  this  illustrated? 
Of  the  sensation  produced  by  each  of 
these,  what  is  said;  and  why?  In 
what,  perhaps,  is  the  most  complete 
assemblage  of  beautiful  objects  present- 
ed? How  may  this  be  rendered  the 
highest  source  of  that  gay,  cheerful, 
and  placid  sensation,  that  characterizes 
beauty?  What  is  a  necessary  requisite 
for  all  who  attempt  poetical  description  ? 
Of  the  beauty  of  the  human  counte- 
nance, what  is  remarked;  and  what 
does  it  include  ?  But  on  what  does  its 
chief  beauty  depend?  What  belongs 
not  to  us  now  to  inquire ;  and  what  is 
certain? 


LKCT.   X 


] 


QUESTIONS. 


58  a 


To  what  observation  does  this  lead  ? 
How  are  these  qualities  divided ;  what 
s  the  first,  on  what  do  they  turn,  and 
what  emotion  do  thev  excite  ?  Of  what 
virtues  is  the  other  ciass  {  Of  the  sen- 
sation which  these  raise,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  From  what  does  a  species  of 
beauty,  distinct  from  any  which  has 
been  mentioned,  arise  ?  In  the  examina- 
tions of  what,  is  the  pleasure  which  we 
receive  wholly  founded  on  this  sense  of 
beauty ;  and  from  what  is  it  altogether 
different?  How  is  this  illustrated  in  the 
examination  of  a  watch  ?  Of  what  is 
this  sense  of  beauty,  in  fitness  and  de- 
sign, the  foundation  ?  Of  the  ornaments 
of  a  building,  what  is  observed ;  and 
how  is  this  illustrated ?  In  the  exami- 
nation of  any  work,  to  what  are  we  na- 
turally led?  When  does  the  work 
seem  to  have  some  beauty  ;  and  when 
does  it  appear  deformed  ?  What  obser- 
vation follows ;  and  why  is  it  made  ? 
How  is  it  fully  illustrated  in  an  epic 
poem,  a  history,  an  oration,  or  any 
work  of  genius  ?  What  species  of  beau- 
ty remains  to  be  noticed  ?  From  what 
does  it  appear  that  this  term  is  used  in 
a  sense  altogether  loose  and  undeter- 
mined ?  Of  the  word  in  this  sense,  what 
is  ohserved  ?  When  does  beauty  of  wri- 
ting characterize  a  particular  manner? 
In  this  sense,  what  does  it  denote? 
What  writers  of  this  class  are  mention- 
ed ;  and  what  is  said  of  them  ?  Why 
has  beauty  been  traced  throuirh  a  va- 
riety of  forms  ?  Objects  deriving  their 
power  of  giving  pleasure  to  the  imagi- 
nation, from  other  principles  besides 
beauty  and  sublimity,  what  is  the  first 
that  is  mentioned ;  what  is  said  of  it ; 
and  hence  what  passion  arises?  Of 
objects  and  ideas  that  are  familiar,  and 
o' "those  that  are  new  and  strange,  what 
i-.  observed ;  and  hence  what  arises ? 
Why  is  the  emotion  raised  by  novelty, 
though  of  a  more  Jively  and  punrrent 
nature,  yet  much  shorter  in  its  continu- 
ance, than  that  which  is  produced  by 
beauty?  What  is  another  source  ot 
pleasure  to  taste;  and  to  what  does  it 
give  rise  ?  From  what  does  it  appear 
that  these  form  a  very  extensive  class? 
Of  the  influence  of  melody  and  harmo- 
ny, as  sources  of  pleasure  to  taste,  what 
Is  observed;  and  hence  what  follows? 
Of  wit,  humour,  and  ridicule,  as  sources 
of  pleasure  to  taste,  what  is  observed  ? 
To  what  class  is  the  pleasure  which 
I 


we  receive  from  poetry,  eloquence,  or 
fine  writing,  to  be  referred?  What  sin- 
gular advantage  do  writing  and  dis- 
course possess  ?  From  what  do  elo- 
quence and  poetry  derive  the  high 
power  of  supplying  the  taste  ana  the 
imagination  with  so  wide  a  field  ot 
pleasures;  and  what  follows?  From 
the  assistance  of  this  happy  invention, 
what  advantages  are  derived,  and 
hence  how  do  critical  writers  usually 
speak  of  discourse  ?  With  what  do 
they  compare  it?  Where,  and  by  whom 
was  this  style  first  introduced ;  and 
what  has  it  since  acquired  ?  In  critical 
language,  what  is  of  consequence ; 
and  what  follows  ?  Between  what 
ideas  must  we  distinguish  ?  How  is 
imitation  performed  ?  What  is  descrip- 
tion ?  From  what  does  it  appear  that 
imitation  and  description  diner  consi- 
derably in  their  nature  from  each 
other?  How  far  may  the  poet's  art  be 
called  imitative,  and  in  what  composi- 
tions is  this  the  case  ?  In  what  can  it 
not,  with  propriety,  be  so  called ;  and 
how  is  this  illustrated  ?  In  what  is  it 
admitted  that  imitation  and  descrip- 
tion agree ;  yet  what  should  not  be 
forgotten  ?  From  what  is  the  power 
of  poetry  and  discourse  evidently  de- 
rived ?  Upon  what,  in  the  next  lecture, 
shall  we  enter ;  and  why  ? 


ANALYSIS. 

1.  Beauty. 

a.  The  nature  of  beauty. 

b.  Hypotheses  of  beauty. 

c.  The  beauty  of  colours. 

D.  The  beauty  of  figures. 

a.JMr.  Hogarth's  Analysis  of 
Beauty. 

E.  Motion  a  source  of  beauty. 

F.  The  union  of  colour,  figure.,  and 
motion. 

g.  The  beauty  of  the  human  coun- 
tenance. 
H.  Moral  qualities. 
I.  The  beauty  of  design. 
J.  Beauty  in  writing. 

2.  Novelty. 

3.  Imitation. 

4.  Melody  and  harmony. 

5.  Wit,  humour,  and  ridicule. 

6.  Writing  and  discourse. 

a.  Imitation  and  description. 


(566) 


LECTURE  VI. 


RISE  AND  PROGRESS  OF  LANGUAGE. 

Having  finished  my  observations  on  the  pleasures  of  taste,  which 
were  meant  to  be  introductory  to  the  principal  subject  of  these  lec- 
tures, I  now  begin  to  treat  of  language ;  which  is  the  foundation  oi 
the  whole  power  of  eloquence.  This  will  lead  to  a  considerable 
discussion  ;  and  there  are  few  subjects  belonging  to  polite  litera- 
ture, which  more  merit  such  a  discussion.  I  shall  first  give  a  histo- 
ry of  the  rise  and  progress  of  language  in  several  particulars,  from 
its  early  to  its  more  advanced  periods  ;  which  shall  be  followed  by 
a  similar  history  of  the  rise  and  progress  of  writing.  I  shall  next 
give  some  account  of  the  construction  of  language,  on  the  principles 
of  universal  grammar ;  and  shall,  lastly,  apply  these  observations 
more  particularly  to  the  English  tongue.* 

Language,  in  general,  signifies  the  expression  of  our  ideas  by  cer- 
tain articulate  sounds,  which  are  used  as  the  signs  of  those  ideas. 
By  articulate  sounds,  are  meant  those  modulations  of  simple  voice 
or  of  sound  emitted  from  the  thorax,  which  are  formed  by  means  of 
the  mouth  and  its  several  organs,  the  teeth,  the  tongue,  the  lips,  and 
the  palate.  How  far  there  is  any  natural  connexion  between  the 
ideas  of  the  mind  and  the  sounds  emitted,  will  appear  from  what  I 
am  afterwards  to  offer.  But  as  the  natural  connexion  can,  upon 
any  system,  affect  only  a  small  part  of  the  fabric  of  language,  the 
connexion  between  words  and  ideas  may,  in  general,  be  considered 
as  arbitrary  and  conventional,  owing  to  the  agreement  of  men  among 
themselves ;  the  clear  proof  of  which  is,  that  different  nations  have 
different  languages,  or  a  different  set  of  articulate  sounds,  whhh 
they  have  chosen  for  communicating  their  ideas. 

Tl.is  artificial  method  of  communicating  thought,  we  now  behold 
carried  to  the  highest  perfection.  Language  is  become  a  vehicle 
oy  which  tne  most  delicate  and  refined  emotions  of  one  mind  can 
be  transmitted,  or,  if  we  may  so  speak,  transfused  into  another.    Not 

*  See  Dr.  Adam  Smith's  Dissertation  on  the  Formation  of  Languages : — Treatise  of 
the  Origin  and  Progress  of  Language,  in  3  vols. : — Harris's  Hermes,  or  a  Philosophical 
Inquiry  concerning  Language  and  Universal  Grammar  : — Essai  sur  l'Origine  des  Con- 
naissances  Humaines,  par  l'Abbe  Condillac : — Principes  de  Grammaire,  par  Marsais : 
— Grammaire  Generale  et  Raisonnee  : — Trait  de  la  Formation  Mechanique  des  Lan- 
gues,  par  le  President  de  Brasses : — Discours  sur  l'Inegalite  parmi  les  Hommes,  par 
Rousseau  : — Grammaire  Generale,  par  Beauzee: — Principcs  de  la  Traduction,  par  Bat- 
teux :— Warburton's  Divine  Legation  of  Moses,  vol.  iii.  : — Sancti  Minerva,  cum  notie 
Perizonii : — Les  Vrais  Principes  de  la  Langue  Fpancoise,  par  l'Abbe  Girard. 


r.ECT.  vi.]  OF  LANGUAGE.  59 

only  are  names  given  to  all  objects  around  us,  by  which  means  an 
easy  and  speedy  intercourse  is  carried  on  for  providing  the  necessa- 
ries of  life,  but  all  the  relations  and  differences  among  these  objects 
are  minutely  marked,  the  invisible  sentiments  of  the  mind  are  de- 
scribed, the  most  abstract  notions  and  conceptions  are  rendered  in- 
telligible; and  all  the  ideas  which  science  can  discover,  or  imagina- 
tion create,  are  known  by  their  proper  names.  Nay,  language  has 
been  carried  so  far  as  to  be  made  an  instrument  of  the  most  refined 
luxury.  Not  resting  in  mere  perspicuity,  we  require  ornament  also ; 
not  satisfied  with  having  the  conceptions  of  others  made  known  to 
us,  we  make  a  farther  demand,  to  have  them  so  decked  and  adorned 
as  to  entertain  our  fancy;  and  this  demand,  it  is  found  very  possible 
to  gratify.  In  this  state,  we  now  find  language.  In  this  state,  it  has 
been  found  among  many  nations  for  some  thousand  years.  The 
object  is  become  familiar;  and,  like  the  expanse  of  the  firmament, 
and  other  great  objects,  which  we  are  accustomed  to  behold,  we 
behold  it  without  wonder. 

But  carry  your  thoughts  back  to  the  first  dawn  of  language  among 
men.  Reflect  upon  the  feeble  beginnings  from  which  it  must  have 
arisen,  and  upon  the  many  and  great  obstacles  which  it  must  have 
encountered  in  its  progress ;  and  you  will  find  reason  for  the  highest 
astonishment,  on  viewing  the  height  which  it  has  now  attained.  We 
admire  several  of  the  inventions  of  art  ;  we  plume  ourselves  on 
some  discoveries  which  have  been  made  in  latter  ages,  serving  to 
advance  knowledge,  and  to  render  life  comfortable ;  we  speak  of 
them  as  the  boast  of  human  reason.  But  certainly  no  invention  is 
entitled  to  any  such  degree  of  admiration  as  that  of  language;  which 
too  must  have  been  the  product  of  the  first  and  rudest  ages,  if  in- 
deed it  can  be  considered  as  a  human  invention  at  all. 

Think  of  the  circumstances  of  mankind  when  languages  began  to 
be  formed.  They  were  a  wandering  scattered  race  ;  no  society 
among  them  except  families  ;  and  the  family  society,  too,  very  im- 
perfect, as  their  method  of  living  by  hunting  or  pasturage  must  have 
separated  them  frequently  from  one  another.  In  this  situation,  when 
so  much  divided,  and  their  intercourse  so  rare,  how  could  any  one 
set  of  sounds,  or  words,  be  generally  agreed  on  as  the  signs  of  their 
ideas?  Supposing  that  a  few,  whom  chance  or  necessity  threw  to- 
gether, agreed  by  some  means  upon  certain  signs,  yet  by  what  au- 
thority could  these  be  propagated  among  other  tribes  or  families,  so 
as  to  spread  and  grow  up  into  a  language?  One  would  think,  that  in 
order  to  any  language  fixing  and  extending  itself,  men  must  have 
be^en  previously  gathered  together  in  considerable  numbers ;  society 
must  have  been  already  far  advanced ;  and  yet,  on  the  other  hand, 
there  seems  to  have  been  an  absolute  necessity  for  speech,  previ- 
ous to  the  formation  of  society.  For  by  what  bond  could  any  mul- 
titude of  men  be  kept  together,  or  be  made  to  join  in  the  prosecu- 
tion of  any  common  interest,  until  once,  by  the  intervention  of 
speech,  they  could  communicate  their  wants  and  intentions  to  one 
another  ?  So  that,  either  how  society  could  form  itself,  previously 
to  language,  or  how  words  could  rise  into  a  language,  previously  to 


60  RISE  AND  PROGRESS  [lect.  vx 

society  formed,  seem  to  be  points  attended  with  equal  difficulty 
And  when  we  consider  farther,  that  curious  analogy  which  prevail", 
in  the  construction  of  almost  all  languages,  and  that  deep  and  subtle 
logic  on  which  they  are  founded,  difficulties  increase  so  much  upon 
us,  on  all  hands,  that  there  seems  to  be  no  small  reason  for  referring 
t'.e  first  origin  of  all  language  to  divine  teaching  or  inspiration. 

But  supposing  language  to  have  a  divine  original,  we  cannot,  how- 
ever, suppose,  that  a  perfect  system  of  it  was  all  at  once  given  tc 
man.  It  is  much  more  natural  to  think,  that  God  taught  our  first 
parents  only  such  language  as  suited  their  present  occasions;  leaving 
them,  as  he  did  in  other  things,  to  enlarge  and  improve  it  as  their 
future  necessities  should  require.  Consequently,  those  first  rudiments 
of  speech  must  have  been  poor  and  narrow ;  and  we  are  at  full  liberty 
to  inquire  in  what  manner  and  by  what  steps,  language  advanced 
to  the  state  in  which  we  now  find  it.  The  history  which  I  am  to 
give  of  this  progress,  will  suggest  several  things,  both  curious  in 
themselves,  and  useful  in  our  future  disquisitions. 

If  we  should  suppose  a  period  before  any  words  were  invented  or 
known,  it  is  clear,  that  men  could  have  no  other  method  of  comma 
nicating  to  others  what  they  felt,  than  by  the  cries  of  passion,  accom- 
panied with  such  motions  and  gestures  as  were  farther  expressive 
of  passion.  For  these  are  the  only  signs  which  nature  teaches  all 
men,  and  which  are  understood  by  all.  One  who  saw  another  go- 
ing into  some  place  where  he  himself  had  been  frightened,  or  ex- 
posed to  danger,  and  who  sought  to  warn  his  neighbour  of  the  dan- 
ger, could  contrive  no  other  way  of  doing  so  than  by  uttering  those 
cries,  and  making  those  gestures,  which  are  the  signs  of  fear:  just 
as  two  men,  at  this  day,  would  endeavour  to  make  themselves  be  un- 
derstood by  each  other,  who  should  be  thrown  together  on  a  desolate 
island,  ignorant  of  each  other's  language.  Those  exclamations, 
therefore,  which  by  grammarians  are  called  interjections,  uttered  in 
a  strong  and  passionate  manner,  we.e,  beyond  doubt,  the  first  ele- 
ments or  beginnings  of  speech. 

When  more  enlarged  communication  became  necessary,  and 
names  began  to  be  assigned  to  objects,  in  what  manner  can  we  sup- 
pose men  to  have  proceeded  in  this  assignation  of  names,  or  inven- 
tion of  words?  Undoubtedly,  by  imitating,  as  much  as  they  could, 
the  nature  of  the  object  which  they  named  by  the  sound  of  the 
name  which  they  gave  to  it.  As  a  painter  who  would  represent  grass, 
must  employ  green  colour:  so  in  the  beginnings  of  language,  one 
giving  a  name  to  any  thing  harsh  or  boisterous,  would  of  course  em- 
ploy a  harsh  or  boisterous  sound.  He  could  not  do  otherwise,  if  he 
meant  to  excite  in  the  hearer  the  idea  of  that  thing  which  he  sought 
to  name.  To  suppose  words  invented,  or  names  given  to  things,  in 
a  manner  purely  arbitrary,  without  any  ground  or  reason,  is  to  sup- 
pose an  effect  without  a  cause.  There  must  have  always  been  some 
motive  which  led  to  the  assignation  of  one  name  rather  than  an- 
other; and  we  can  conceive  no  motive  which  would  more  generally 
operate  upon  men  in  their  first  efforts  towards  language,  than  a  de- 
sire to  paint  by  speech,  the  objects  which  they  named,  in  a  manner 


li>ct   vi.]  OF  LANGUAGE.  61 

more  or  less  complete,  according  as  the  vocal  organs  had  it  in  their 
power  to  affect  this  imitation. 

Wherever  objects  were  to  be  named,  in  which  sound,  *aoise,  or 
motion  were  concerned,  the  imitation  by  words  was  abundantly 
obvious.  Nothing  was  more  natural,  than  to  imitate,  by  the  sound 
of  the  voice,  the  quality  of  the  sound  or  noise  which  any  external 
object  made;  and  to  form  its  name  accordingly.  Thus,  in  all  lan- 
guages, we  find  a  multitude  of  words  that  are  evidently  constructed 
upon  this  principle.  A  certain  bird  is  termed  the  cuckoo,  from  the 
sound  which  it  emits.  When  one  sort  of  wind  is  said  to  whistle,  and 
another  to  roar;  wd.en  a  serpent  is  said  to  hiss ;  a  fly  to  buz,  and 
falling  timber  to  crash;  when  a  stream  is  said  to  flow,  and  hail  to 
rattle ,  the  analogy  between  the  word  and  the  thing  signified  is  plain- 
ly discernible. 

In  the  names  of  objects  which  address  the  sight  only,  where 
neither  noise  nor  motion  are  concerned,  and  still  more  .11  ine  terms 
appropriated  to  moral  ideas,  this  analogy  appears  to  fad  Many 
learned  men,  however,  have  been  of  opinion,  that  though  in  such 
cases  it  becomes  more  obscure,  yet  it  is  not  altogether  lost ;  but 
that  throughout  the  radical  words  of  all  languages,  there  may  be 
traced  some  degree  of  correspondence  with  the  object  signified. 
With  regard  to  moral  and  intellectual  ideas,  they  remark,  that  in 
every  language,  the  terms  significant  of  them,  are  derived  from  the 
names  of  sensible  objects  to  which  they  are  conceived  to.be  analo- 
gous; and  with  regard  to  sensible  objects  pertaining  merely  to  sight, 
they  remark,  that  their  most  distinguishing  qualities  have  certain 
radical  sounds  appropriated  to  the  expression  of  them,  in  a  great 
variety  of  languages.  Stability,  for  instance,  fluidity,  hollowness, 
smoothness,  gentleness,  violence,  &c.  they  imagine  to  be  painted  by 
the  sound  of  certain  letters  or  syllables,  which  have  some  relation  to 
hose  different  states  of  visible  objects,  on  account  of  an  obscure 
resemblance  which  the  organs  of  speech  are  capable  of  assuming  to 
such  external  qualities.  By  this  natural  mechanism,  they  imagine 
all  languages  to  have  been  at  first  constructed,  and  the  roots  of  their 
capital  words  formed.* 

"  The  author  who  has  carried  his  speculations  on  this  subject  the  farthest,  is  the 
President  Des  Brosses,  in  his  "  TraiJe  de  la  Formation  M6chanique  des  Langues." 
Some  of  the  radical  letters  or  syllables  which  he  supposes  to  carry  this  expressive 
power  in  most  known  languages  are,  St,  to  signify  stability  or  rest  ;  Fl,  to  de- 
note fluency  ;  CI,  a  gentle  descent ;  R,  what  relates  to  rapid  motion  ;  C,  to  cavity 
or  hollowness,  he.  A  century  before  his  time,  Dr.  Wallis,  in  his  Grammar  of  the 
English  Language,  had  taken  notice  of  these  significant  roots,  and  represented  it 
as  a  peculiar  excellency  of  our  tongue,  that  beyond  all  others,  it  .expressed  the 
nature  of  the  objects  which  it  named,  by  employing  sounds  sharper,  softer,  weak- 
er, stronger,  more  obscure,  or  more  stridulous,  according  as  the  idea  which  is  to 
be  suggested  requires.  He  gives  various  examples.  Thus,  words,  formed  upon 
St,  always  denote  firmness  and  strength,  analogous  to  the  Latin  sto  ;  as  stand,  stay 
staff,  stop,  stout,  steady,  stake,  stamp,  stallion,  stately,  he.  Words  beginning 
with  Str,  intimate  violent  force  and  energy,  analogous  to  the  Greek  a-Tfrntu/ut;  as, 
strive,  strength,  strike,  stripe,  stress,  struggle,  stride,  stretch,  strip,  Sic.  Thr, 
implies  forcible  motion :  as  throw,  throb,  thrust,  through,  threaten,  thraldom 
Wr,  obliquity  or  distortion  ;  as,  wry,  wrest,  wreath,  wrestle,  wring,  wrong,  wran- 
gle, wrath,  wrack,  he.     Sw,  silent    agitation,  or  lateral  motion  ;  as,  sway,  swing 


62  RISE  AND  PROGRESS  [lect.  v? 

As  far  as  this  system  is  founded  in  truth,  language  appears  to  be 
not  altogether  arbitrary  in  its  origin.  Among  the  ancient  Stoic  and 
Platonic  philosophers,  it  was  a  question  much  agitated,  "  Utruni 
nomina  rerum  sint  natura,  an  impositione  ?  (pCdei  i\  dittel ;"  by  which  they 
meant,  whether  words  were  merely  conventional  symbols  ;  of  the 
rise  of  which  no  account  could  be  given,  except  the  pleasure  of  the 
first  inventors  of  language?  or,  whether  there  was  some  principle  in 
nature  that  led  to  the  assignation  of  particular  names  to  particular 
objects?  and  those  of  the  Platonic  school  favoured  the  latter  opin- 
ion.* 

This  principle,  however,  of  a  natural  relation  between  words  and 
objects,  can  only  be  applied  to  language  in  its  most  simple  and  pri- 
mitive state.  Though  in  every  tongue,  some  remains  of  it,  as  I 
have  shown  above,  can  be  traced,  it  were  utterly  in  vain  to  search 
for  it  throughout  the  whole  construction  of  any  modern  language. 
As  the  multitude  of  terms  increase  in  every  nation,  and  the  immense 
field  of  language  is  filled  up,  words,  by  a  thousand  fanciful  and  irre- 
gular methods  of  derivation  and  composition,  come  to  deviate  wide- 
ly from  the  primitive  character  of  their  roots,  and  to  lose  all  analogy 
or  resemblance  in  sound  to  the  things  signified.  In  this  state  we 
now  find  language.  Words,  as  we  now  employ  them,  taken  in  the 
general,  may  be  considered  as  symbols,  not  as  imitations;  as  arbi- 
trary, or  instituted,  not  natural  signs  of  ideas.  But  there  can  be  no 
doubt,  I  think,  that  language,  the  nearer  we  remount  to  its  rise 
among  men,  will  be  found  to  partake  more  of  a  natural  expression. 
As  it  could  be  originally  formed  on  nothing  but  imitation,  it  would, 
in  its  primitive  state,  be  more  picturesque ;  much  more  barren  in- 
deed, and  narrow  in  the  circle  of  its  terms,  than  now ;  but  as  far  as 
it  went,  more  expressive  by  sound  of  the  thing  signified.     This, 

swerve,  sweep,  swim.  SI,  a  gentle  fall  or  less  observable  motion  ;  as,  slide,  slip, 
sly,  slit,  slow,  slack,  sling.  Sp,  dissipation  or  expansion  ;  as  spread,  sprout, 
sprinkle,  split,  spill,  spring.  Terminations  in  ash,  indicate  something  acting  nimbly 
and  sharply;  as,  crash,  gash,  rash,  flash,  lash,  slash.  Terminations  in  ash,  some- 
thing acting  more  obtusely  and  dully  ;  as,  crush,  brush,  hush,  gush,  blush.  The  learn- 
ed author  produces  a  great  many  more  examples  of  the  same  kind,  which  seem  to 
leave  no  doubt,  that  the  analogies  of  sound  have  had  some  influence  on  the  for- 
mation of  words.  At  the  same  time,  in  all  speculations  of  this  kind,  there  is  so  much 
room  for  fancy  to  operate,  that  they  ought  to  be  adopted  with  much  caution  in  forming 
any  general  theory. 

*Vid.  Plat,  in  Cratylo.  "Nomina  verbaque  non  posita  fortuito,  sed  quadam  vi  et 
"  ratione  naturae  facta  esse,  P.  Nigidius  in  Grammaticis  Commentariis  docc-t  ;  rem 
"  sane  in  philosophise  dissertationibus  celebrem.  In  earn  rem  multa  argumenta 
"  dicit,  cur  videri  possint,  verba  esse  naturalia,  magis  qv.am  arbitraria.  Jos,  in* 
"  quit,  cum  dicimus,  motu  quodam  oris  conveniente,  cum  ipsius  verbi  demonstra- 
"  tione  utimur,  et  labias  sensim  primores  emovemus,  ac  spiritum  atque  animam 
"  porro  versum,  et  ad  eos  quibus  consermocinamur  jntendimus.  At  contra  cum 
"  dicimus  J\"os,  neque  profuso  intentoque  flatu  vocis,  neque  projectis  labiis  pro- 
"  nunciamus  ;  sed  et  spiritum  et  labias  quasi  intra  nosmet  ipsos  coercemus.  Hoc 
"  sit  idem  et  in  eo  quod  dicimus  tu,  et  ego,  et  rnihi,  et  tibi.  Nam  sicuti  cum  adnui- 
"  mus  et  abnuimus,  motus  quodam  illo  vel  capitis,  vel  oculomm,  a  natura  rei  quain 
"  significat,  non  abhorret,  ita  in  his  vocibus  quasi  gestus  quidam  oris  et  spiritus 
"  naturalis  est.  Eadem  ratio  est  in  Gratis  quoque  vocibus  quam  esse  in  iiostnY 
"  animadvertimus." 

A.  Gellius,  Noct.  Atticw,  lib.  x.  cap.  4 


lect.  vt.J  OF  LANGUAGE.  63 

then,  may  be  assumed  as  one  character  of  the  first  state,  or  begin- 
nings of  language,  among  every  savage  tribe. 

A  second  character  of  language,  in  its  early  state,  is  drawn  from 
the  manner  in  which  words  were  at  first  pronounced,  or  uttered,  by 
men.  Interjections,  I  showed,  or  passionate  exclamations,  were  the 
first  elements  of  speech.  Men  laboured  to  communicate  their  feel- 
ings to  one  another,  by  those  expressive  cries  and  gestures  which 
nature  taught  them.  After  words,  or  names  of  objects,  began  to  be 
invented,  this  mode  of  speaking,  by  natural  signs,  could  not  be  all  at 
once  disused.  For  language,  in  its  infancy,  must  have  been  ex- 
tremely barren ;  and  there  certainly  was  a  period  among  all  rude 
nations,  when  conversation  was  carried  on  by  a'very  few  words,  in- 
termixed with  many  exclamations  and  earnest  gesture  s.  The  small 
stock  of  words  which  men  as  yet  possessed,  rendered  these  helps 
absolutely  necessary  for  explaining  their  conceptions  ;  and  rude, 
uncultivated  men,  not  having  always  at  hand  even  the  few  words, 
which  they  knew,  would  naturally  labour  to  make  themselves  un- 
derstood, by  varying  their  tones  of  voice,  and  accompanying  their 
tones  with  the  most  significant  gesticulations  they  could  make.  At 
this  day,  when  persons  attempt  to  speak  in  any  language  which  they 
}  ossess  imperfectly,  they  have  recourse  to  all  these  supplemental 
methods,  in  order  to  render  themselves  more  intelligible.  The  plan, 
too,  according  to  which  I  have  shown,  that  language  was  originally 
constructed,  upon  resemblance  or  analogy,  as  far  as  was  possible,  to 
the  thing  signified,  would  naturally  lead  men  to  utter  their  words 
with  more  emphasis  and  force,  as  long  as  language  was  a  sort  of 
painting  by  means  of  sound.  For  all  those  reasons  this  may  be  as- 
sumed as  a  principle,  that  the  pronunciation  of  the  earliest  languages 
was  accompanied  with  more  gesticulation,  and  with  more  and 
greater  inflections  of  voice,  than  what  we  now  use;  there  was  more 
action  in  it;  and  it  was  more  upon  a  crying  or  singing  tone. 

To  this  manner  of  speaking,  necessity  first  gave  rise.  But  we 
must  observe,  that  after  this  necessity  had,  in  a  great  measure,  ceas- 
ed, by  language  becoming,  in  process  of  time,  more  extensive  and 
copious,  the  ancient  manner  of  speech  still  subsisted  among  many 
nations ;  and  what  had  arisen  from  necessity,  continued  to  be  used 
for  ornament.  Wherever  there  was  much  fire  and  vivacity  in  the 
genius  of  nations,  they  were  naturally  inclined  to  a  mode  of  conver 
sation  which  gratified  the  imagination  so  much;  for  an  imagination 
which  is  warm,  is  always  prone  to  throw  both  a  great  deal  of  action, 
and  a  variety  of  tones,  into  discourse.  Upon  this  principle,  Dr. 
Warburton  accounts  for  so  much  speaking  by  action,  as  we  find 
among  the  Old  Testament  prophets;  as  when  Jeremiah  breaks  the 
potter's  vessel,  in  sight  of  the  people  ;  throws  a  book  into  the 
Euphrates;  puts  on  bonds  and  yokes;  and  carries  out  his  household 
stuff;  all  which,  he  imagines, might  be  significant  modes  of  expies- 
sion,  very  natural  in  those  ages,  when  men  were  accustomed  to  ex- 
plain themselves  so  much  by  actions  and  gestures.  In  like  manner, 
among  the  northern  American  tribes,  certain  motions  and  actions 
were  found  to  he  much  used  as  explanatory  of  their  meaning,  on  ail 


64  RISE  AND  PROGRESS  [uot,  vj 

their  ^eat  occasions  of  intercourse  with  each  other  ;  and  by  the 
belts  and  strings  of  wampum,  which  they  gave  and  received,  they 
were  accustomed  to  declare  their  meaning,  as  much  as  hy  their  dis- 
courses. 

With  regard  to  inflections  of  voice,  these  are  so  natural,  that  to 
some  nations,  it  has  appeared  easier  to  express  different  ideas,  by  va- 
rying the  tone  with  which  they  pronounced  the  same  word,  than  tc 
contrive  words  for  all  their  ideas.  This  is  the  practice  of  the  Chi- 
nese in  particular.  The  number  of  words  in  their  language  is  said 
not  to  be  great;  but  in  speaking,  they  vary  each  of  their  words  on 
no  less  than  five  different  tones,  by  which  the)7  make  the  same  word 
signify  five  different  things.  This  must  give  a  great  appearance  of 
music  or  singing  to  their  speech.  For  those  inflections  of  voice 
which,  in  the  infancy  of  language,  were  no  more  than  harsh  or  dis- 
sonant cries,  must,  as  language  gradually  polishes,  pass  into  more 
smooth  and  musical  sounds;  and  hence  is  formed,  what  we  call  the 
prosody  of  a  language. 

It  is  remarkable,  and  deserves  attention,  that,  both  in  the  Greek 
and  Roman  languages,  this  musical  and  gesticulating  pronunciation 
was  retained  in  a  very  high  degree.  Without  having  attended  to 
this,  we  shall  be  at  a  loss  in  understanding  several  passages  of  the 
classics,  which  relate  to  the  public  speaking,  and  the  theatrical  en- 
tertainments of  the  ancients.  It  appears  from  many  circumstances, 
that  the  prosody  both  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  was  carried  much 
farther  than  ours;  or  that  they  spoke  with  more  and  stronger  inflec- 
tions of  voice  than  we  use.  The  quantity  of  their  syllables  was 
much  more  fixed  than  in  any  of  the  modern  languages,  and  render- 
ed much  more  sensible  to  the  ear  in  pronouncing  them.  Besides 
quantities,  or  the  difference  of  short  and  long,  accents  were  placed 
upon  most  of  their  syllables,  the  acute,  grave,  and  circumflex  ;  the 
use  of  which  accents  we  have  now  entirely  lost,  but  which,  we  know, 
determined  the  speaker's  voice  to  rise  or  fall.  Our  modern  pronun- 
ciation must  have  appeared  to  them  a  lifeless  monotony.  The 
declamation  of  their  'orators,  and  the  pronunciation  of  their  actors 
upon  the  stage,  approached  to  the  nature  of  recitative  in  music  ; 
was  capable  of  being  marked  in  notes,  and  supported  with  instru- 
ments; as  several  learned  men  have  fully  proved.  And  if  this  was 
the  case,  as  they  have  shown, among  the  Romans,  the  Greeks,  it  is 
well  known,  wrere  still  a  more  musical  people  than  the  Romans,  and 
carried  their  attention  to  tone  and  pronunciation  much  farther  in 
every  public  exhibition.  Ariscotle,  in  his  poetics,  considers  the 
music  of  tragedy  as  one  of  its  chief  and  most  essential  parts. 

The  case  was  parallel  with  regard  to  gestures;  for  strong  tones, 
and  animated  gestures,  we  may  observe,  always  go  together.  Ac* 
lion  is  treated  of  by  all  the  ancient  critics,  as  the  chief  quality  in 
every  public  speaker.  The  action,  both  of  the  orators  and  the  play- 
ers in  Greece  and  Rome,  was  far  more  vehement  than  what  we  are 
accustomed  to.  Roscius  would  have  seemed  a  madman  to  us.  Ges- 
ture was  of  such  consequence  upon  the  ancient  stage,  that  there  is 
reason  for  believing,  that  on  some  occasions,  the  speaking  and  the 


lect.  vi.]  OF  LANGUAGE.  65 

acting  part  were  divided,  which,  according  to  our  ideas,  would  form 
a  strange  exhibition ;  one  player  spoke  the  words  in  the  proper  tones, 
while  another  performed  the  corresponding  motions  and  gestures. 
We  learn  from  Cicero,  that  it  was  a  contest  between  him  and  Ros- 
cius,  whether  he  could  express  a  sentiment  in  a  greater  variety  of 
phrases,  or  Roscius  in  a  greater  variety  of  intelligible  significant  ges- 
tures. At  last,  gesture  came  to  engross  the  stage  wholly;  for,  under 
the  reigns  of  Augustus  and  Tiberius,  the  favourite  entertainment  of 
the  public  was  the  pantomime,  which  was  carried  on  entirely  by  mute 
gesticulation.  The  people  were  moved,  and  wept  at  it,  as  much  as 
at  tragedies  ;  and  the  passion  for  it  became  so  strong,  that  laws  were 
obliged  to  be  made,  for  restraining  the  senators  from  studying  the 
pantomime  art.  Now,  though  in  declamations  and  theatrical  exhi- 
bitions, both  tone  and  gesture  were  doubtless  carried  much  farther 
than  in  common  discourse;  yet  public  speaking,  of  any  kind,  must, 
in  every  country,  bear  some  proportion  to  ,the  manner  that  is  used  in 
conversation,  and  such  public  entertainments  as  I  have  now  men- 
tioned could  never  have  been  relished  by  a  nation,  whose  tones  and 
gestures,  in  discourse,  were  as  languid  as  ours. 

When  the  barbarians  spread  themselves  over  the  Roman  empire, 
these  more  phlegmatic  nations  did  not  retain  the  accents,  the  tones, 
and  gestures,  which  necessity  at  first  introduced,  and  custom  and 
fancy  afterwards  so  long  supported,  in  the  Greek  and  Roman  lan- 
guages. As  the  Latin  tongue  was  lost  in  their  idioms,  so  the  charac- 
ter of  speech  and  pronunciation  began  to  be  changed  throughout. 
Europe.  Nothing  of  the  same  attention  was  paid  to  the  music  of 
language,  or  to  the  pomp  of  declamation  and  theatrical  action. 
Both  conversation  and  public  speaking  became  more  simple  and 
plain,  such  as  we  now  find  it;  without  that  enthusiastic  mixture  ot 
tones  and  gestures,  which  distinguished  the  ancient  nations.  At  the 
restoration  of  letters,  the  genius  of  language  was  so  much  alterec, 
and  the  manners  of  the  people  had  become  so  different,  that  it  was 
no  easy  matter  to  understand  what  the  ancients  had  said,  concerning 
their  declamations  and  public  spectacles.  Our  plain  manner  of 
speaking  in  these  northern  countries,  expresses  the  passions  with  suf- 
ficient energy,  to  move  those  who  are  not  accustomed  to  any  more 
vehement  manner.  But,  undoubtedly,  more  varied  tones,  and  more 
animated  motions,  carry  a  natural  expression  of  warmer  feelings. 
Accordingly,  in  different  modern  languages,  the  prosody  of  speech 
partakes  more  of  music,  in  proportion  to  the  liveliness  and  sensi- 
bility of  the  people.  A  Frenchman  both  varies  his  accents,  and 
gesticulates,  while  he  speaks,  much  more  than  an  Englishman.  An 
Italian,  a  great  deal  more  than  either.  Musical  pronunciation  and 
expressive  gesture,  are  to  this  day  the  distinction  of  Italy. 

From  the  pronunciation  of  language,  let  us  proceed,  in  the  third 
place,  to  consider  the  style  of  language  in  its  most  early  state,  and 
its  progress  in  this  respect  also.  As  the  manner  in  which  men  first 
uttered  their  words,  and  maintained  conversation,  was  strong  and 
expressive,  enforcing  their  imperfectly  expressed  ideas  bv  cries 
K  9 


66  RISE  AND  PROGRESS  [lect.  vi 

and  gestures  ;  so  the  language  which  they  used,  could  he  no  other 
than  full  of  figures  and  metaphors,  not  correct  indeed,  but  forcible 
and  picturesque. 

We  are  apt,  upon  a  superficial  view,  to  imagine,  that  those  modes 
of  expression  which  are  called  figures  of  speech,  are  among  the 
chief  refinements  of  speech,  not  invented  till  after  language  had 
advanced  to  its  later  periods,  and  mankind  were  brought  into  a  pol- 
ished state;  and  that,  then,  they  were  devised  by  orators  and  rhe- 
toricians. The  contrary  of  this  is  the  truth.  Mankind  never  em- 
ployed so  many  figures  of  speech,  as  when  they  had  hardly  any 
words  for  expressing  their  meaning. 

For,  first,  the  want  of  proper  names  for  every  object,  obliged  them 
to  use  one  name  for  many ;  and  of  course,  to  express  themselves 
by  comparisons,  metaphors,  allusions,  and  all  those  substituted  forms 
of  speech  which  render  language  figurative.  Next,  as  the  objects 
with  which  they  were  most  conversant,  were  the  sensible,  material 
objects  around  them,  names  would  be  given  to  those  objects  long 
before  words  were  invented  for  signifying  the  dispositions  of  the 
yiind,  or  any  sort  of  moral  and  intellectual  ideas.  Hence,  the  early 
language  of  men  being  entirely  made  up  of  words  descriptive  of 
sensible  objects,  it  became  of  necessity  extremely  metaphorical. — 
For,  to  signify  any  desire  or  passion,  or  any  act  or  feeling  of  the 
mind,  they  had  no  precise  expression  which  was  appropriated  to 
that  purpose,  but  were  under  a  necessity  of  painting  the  emotion 
or  passion  which  they  felt,  by  allusion  to  those  sensible  objects  which 
had  most  relation  to  it,  and  which  could  render  it,  in  some  sort, 
visible  to  others. 

But  it  was  not  necessity  alone,  that  gave  rise  to  this  figured  style. 
Other  circumstances  also,  at  the  commencement  of  language,  con- 
tributed to  it.  In  the  infancy  of  all  societies,  men  are  much  un- 
der the  dominion  of  imagination  and  passion.  They  live  scattered 
and  dispersed  ;  they  are  unacquainted  with  the  course  of  things  ; 
they  are,  every  day,  meeting  with  new  and  strange  objects.  Fear 
and  surprise,  wonder  and  astonishment,  are  their  most  frequent  pas- 
sions. Their  language  will  necessarily  partake  of  this  character  oi 
their  minds.  They  will  be  prone  to  exaggeration  and  hyperbole. 
They  will  be  given  to  describe  every  thing  with  the  strongest  co- 
lours, and  most  vehement  expressions ;  infinitely  more  than  men 
living  in  the  advanced  and  cultivated  periods  of  society,  when  their 
imaginations  are  more  chastened,  their  passions  are  more  tamed, 
and  a  wider  experience  has  rendered  the  objects  of  life  more  fa 
miliar  to  them.  Even  the  manner  in  which  I  before  showed  that 
the  first  tribes  of  men  uttered  their  words,  would  have  considerable 
influence  on  their  style.  Wherever  strong  exclamations,  tones,  and 
gestures,  enter  much  into  conversation,  the  imagination  is  always 
more  exercised  ;  a  greater  effort  of  fancy  and  passion  is  excited.— 
'Jonsequently,  the  fancy  kept  awake,  and  rendered  more  sprightly 
by  this  mode  of  utterance,  operates  upon  style,  and  enlivens  it  more. 

These  reasonings  are  confirmed  by  undoubted  facts.  The  style 
of  all  the  most  early  languages,  among  nations  who  are  in  the  first 


lect.  vi.]  OF  LANGUAGE.  67 

and  rude  periods  of  society,  is  found,  without  exception,  to  be  full  of 
figures;  hyperbolical  and  picturesque  in  a  high  degree.  We  have  a 
striking  instance  of  this  in  the  American  languages,  which  are  known , 
by  the  most  authentic  accounts,  to  be  figurative  to  excess.  The  Iro- 
quois and  Illinois  carry  on  their  treaties  and  public  transactions  with 
bolder  metaphors,  and  greater  pomp  and  style,  than  we  use  in  our 
poetical  productions.* 

Another  remarkable  instance  is  the  style  of  the  Old  Testament, 
which  is  carried  on  by  constant  allusions  to  sensible  objects.  Iniquity, 
or  guilt,  is  expressed  by  "  a  spotted  garment ;"  misery,  by  "  drinking 
the  cup  of  astonishment;"  vain  pursuits,  by  "feeding  on  ashes;"  a 
sinful  life,  by  "  a  crooked  path ;"  prosperity,  by  "  the  candle  of  the 
Lord  shining  on  our  head ;"  and  the  like,  in  innumerable  instances. 
Hence  we  have  been  accustomed  to  call  this  sort  of  style  the  orien- 
tal style  ;  as  fancying  it  to  be  peculiar  to  the  nations  of  the  east ; 
whereas,  from  the  American  style,  and  from  many  other  instances, 
it  plainly  appears  not  to  have  been  peculiar  to  any  one  region  or 
climate  ;  but  to  have  been  common  to  all  nations  in  certain  periods 
of  society  and  language. 

Hence  we  may  receive  some  light  concerning  that  seeming  para- 
dox, that  poetry  is  more  ancient  than  prose.  I  shall  have  occasion 
to  discuss  this  point  fully  hereafter,  when  I  come  to  treat  of  the 
nature  and  origin  of  poetry.  At  present,  it  is  sufficient  to  observe, 
that,  from  what  has  been  said,  it  plainly  appears  that  the  style  of  all 
language  must  have  been  originally  poetical ;  strongly  tinctured  with 
that  enthusiasm,  and  that  descriptive  metaphorical  expression,  which 
distinguishes  poetry. 

As  language  in  its  progress  began  to  grow  more  copious,  it  gra- 
dually lost  that  figurative  style,  which  was  its  ea  rly  character.  When 
men  were  furnished  with  proper  and  familiar  names  for  every  object, 
both  sensible  and  moral,  they  were  not  obliged  to  use  so  many  cir- 
cumlocutions. Style  became  more  precise,  and,  of  course,  more 
simple.  Imagination,  too,  in  proportion  as  society  advanced,  had 
less  influence  over  mankind.     The  vehement  manner  of  speaking 

*  Thus,  to  give  an  instance  of  the  singular  style  of  these  nations,  the  Five  Na- 
tions of  Canada,  when  entering  on  a  treaty  of  peace  with  us,  expressed  themselves  by 
their  chiefs,  in  the  following  language :  "  We  are  happy  in  having  buried  under 
"  ground  the  red  axe,  that  has  so  often  been  dyed  with  the  blood  of  our  brethren. 
"  Now,  in  this  sort,  we  inter  the  axe,  and  plant  the  tree  of  peace.  We  plant  a  tree 
"  whose  top  will  reach  the  sun,  and  its  branches  spread  abroad,  so  that  it  shad  be 
"  seen  afar  off.  May  its  growth  never  be  stifled  and  choaked  ;  but  may  it  shade  both 
"  your  country  and  ours  with  its  leaves  !  Let  us  make  fast  its  roots  and  extend  theiu 
•'  to  the  utmost  of  your  colonies.  If  the  French  should  come  to  shake  this  tree,  we 
«  K-ijuld  know  it  by  the  motion  of  its  roots  reaching  into  our  country.  May  the  Great 
u  Spirit  allow  us  to  rest  in  tranquillity  upon  our  mats,  and  never  again  dig  up  the  ax 
u  to  cut  down  the  tree  of  peace !  Let  the  earth  be  trod  hard  over  it,  where  it  lies 
"  buried.  Let  a  strong  stream  run  under  the  pit,  to  wash  the  evil  away  out  of  our 
u  sight  and  remembrance.  The  fire  that  had  Vong  burned  in  Albany  is  extinguished. 
"  The  bloody  bed  is  wasned  clean,  and  the  tears  are  wiped  from  our  eves.  We  now 
«  renew  the  covenant  chain  of  friendship.  Let  it  be  kept  bright  and  clean  as  silver, 
"  and  not  suffered  to  contract  anv  rust.  Let  not  any  one  pull  away  his  arm  from  it." 
These  passages  are  extracted  from  Cadwallader  Colden's  History  of  the  Five  Indian 
Nations  :  where  it  appears,  from  the  authentic  documents  he  produces,  that  such  is 
their  genuine  style. 


68 


QUESTIONS. 


[LEuT.  VI. 


by  tones  and  gestures,  began  to  be  disused.  The  understanding 
was  more  exercised  ;  the  fancy  less.  Intercourse  among  mankind 
becoming  more  extensive  and  frequent,  clearness  of  style,  in  signi- 
fying their  meaning  to  each  other,  was  the  chief  object  of  attention. 
In  place  of  poets,  philosophers  became  the  instructors  of  men  ;  and 
in  their  reasonings  on  all  ditferent  subjects,  introduced  that  plainer 
and  simpler  style  of  composition  which  we  now  call  prose.  Among 
the  Greeks,  Pherecydes  of  Scyros,  the  master  of  Pythagoras,  is  re- 
corded to  have  been  the  first  who,  in  this  sense,  composed  any  wri- 
ting in  prose.  The  ancient  metaphorical  and  poetical  dress  of  lan- 
guage was  now  laid  aside  from  the  intercourse  of  men,  and  reserved 
for  those  occasions  only,  on  which  ornament  was  professedly 
studied. 

Thus  I  have  pursued  the  history  of  language  through  some  of  the 
variations  it  has  undergone :  I  have  considered  it,  in  the  first  struc- 
ture and  composition  of  words  ;  in  the  manner  of  uttering  or  pro- 
nouncing words  ;  and  in  the  style  and  character  of  speech.  I  have 
yet  to  consider  it  in  another  view,  respecting  the  order  and  arrange- 
ment of  words  ;  when  we  shall  find  a  progress  to  have  taken  place, 
similar  to  what  I  have  been  now  illustrating:. 


QUESTIONS. 


Of  the  consideration  of  language, 
what  is  remarked  ?  In  what  order  does 
our  author  propose  to  treat  of  it  ?  What 
does  language,  in  general,  signify  ?  By 
these  sounds  what  are  meant  ?  What 
will  appear  from  what  is  afterwards 
to  be  offered  ?  From  what  does  it  ap- 
pear, that  words  and  ideas  may,  in 
general,  be  considered  arbitrary  and 
conventional  ?  Of  which,  what  is  a 
clear  proof?  In  what  state  do  we  now 
behold  this  artificial  method  of  com- 
municating thought?  What  has  lan- 
guage become  ?  By  what  remark  is 
this  illustrated  ?  Of  what  has  language 
become  the  instrument ;  and  how  is 
.his  also  illustrated !  How  long  has 
language  been  found  in  this  refined 
Btate ;  and  what  is  the  consequence  ? 
To  have  reason  for  the  highest  asto- 
nishment, to  what  period  must  we 
carry  our  thoughts  back ;  and  on  what 
must  we  reflect?  What  do  we  admire; 
£.nd  on  what  do  we  plume  ourselves? 
What  remark  follows?  In  what  cir- 
cumstances did  mankind  live,  when 
language  began  to  be  formed  ?  Of  this 
situation,  what  is  remarked?  What 
would  one  naturally  think  ;  and  why? 
What  i\vo  points  seem  to  be  attended 


with  equal  difficulty  ?  Upon  considerinu 
what,  do  difficulties  increase  upon  us: 
and  for  what,  consequently,  does  there 
appear  no  small  reason?  If  we  admit 
that  language  had  a  divine  origin, 
what  can  we  not  suppose;  why;  and 
what  consequence  follows  ?  Of  this 
history,  what  is  observed?  If  we  sup- 
pose that  there  was  a  period,  before 
words  were  invented  or  known,  what 
follows;  and  why?  How  is  this  illus- 
trated? Of  those  exclamations,  there- 
fore, what  is  remarked  ?  When  more 
enlarged  communications  became  ne- 
cessary, in  what  manner  did  men  pro 
ceed  in  the  assignation  of  names  ? 
What  illustrations  follow  ?  Under  what 
circumstances,  could  he  not  do  other 
wise  ?  What  would  be  supposing  an 
effect  without  a  cause;  and  why?  .n 
this  case,  what  motive  would  operate 
most  generally'?  Where  was  the  imita- 
tion of  words  abundantly  evident ;  and 
why?  Thus,  in  all  languages,  what 
do  we  find?  How  is  this  illustrate  !  ' 
Where  does  this  analogy  seem  to  fail  ' 
Many  learned  men,  however,  have 
been  of  what  opinion  ?  With  regard  to 
moral  and  intellectual  ideas,  and  also 
with  regard  to  sensible  objects  that  ad 


LECT. 


VI.j 


QUESTIONS. 


68  a 


mess  themselves  merely  to  the  sight, 
what  do  they  remark?  How  is  this  il- 
lustrateu  ?  Of  this  system,  what  is  re- 
marked ?  What  question  was  much 
agitated  among  the  ancient  Stoic  and 
Platonic  philosophers?  Which  opinion 
wd  the  Platonic  school  favour  ?  When, 
only,  can  this  principle  of  natural  rela- 
tion be  applied?  Though  in  every 
tongue,  some  remains  of  it  can  be 
traced,  yet  what  were  utterly  vain ; 
and  why  ?  What  may  words,  as  we 
now  empby  them,  be  considered ;  but 
of  what  can  there  be  no  doubt;  and 
what  remark  follows  ?  From  What  is  a 
second  character  of  language  drawn  ? 
What  have  been  shown  to  have  been 
the  first  elements  of  speech  ?  How  did 
men  labour  to  communicate  their  feel- 
ings to  one  another  ?  After  words  began 
to  be  invented,  why  could  not  this  mode 
of  speaking,  by  natural  signs,  be  at 
once  disused?  What  rendered  these 
helps  absolutely  necessary,  for  explain- 
ing their  conceptions?  How  would 
rude  and  uncultivated  men  labour  to 
make  themselves  understood ;  and  why? 
How  is  this  further  illustrated?  To 
what  would  this  plan  also  naturally 
\ead  ?  For  all  those  reasons,  what  may 
be  assumed  as  a  principle  ? 

Though  necessity  gave  rise  to  this 
mode  of  speaking,  yet,  what  must  we 
observe  ?  Of  nations  possessing  much 
fire  and  vivacity,  what  is  observed  ; 
and  why?  For  what  does  Dr.  War- 
ourton  account ;  and  what  illustration 
is  given  ?  In  like  manner,  what  were 
found  to  be  much  used  among  the 
northern  American  tribes;  and  how 
were  they  accustomed  to  declare  their 
meaning?  With  regard  to  inflections 
of  voice,  what  is  observed?  With  what 
nation,  particularly,  is  this  the  practice  ? 
As  the  number  of  words  in  their  lan- 
guage is  not  great,  how  do  they  vary 
them?  What  appearance  must  this 
give  to  their  speech ;  why ;  and  hence 
is  formed  what  ?  What  is  remarkable, 
and  deserves  attention  ?  Without  having 
attended  to  this,  in  understanding-  what, 
shall  we  be  at  a  loss?  From  many  cir- 
cumstances,  with  regard  to  the  prosody 
of  the  Greeks  and  the  Romans,  what 
appears  manifest?  Of  the  quantity  of 
their  syllables  what  is  observed  ?  Be- 
sides quantities,  what  were  plp.ced  up- 
on most  of  their  syllables  ;  and  of  their 
use,  what  is  reraark°G  ?    How  would 


our  modern  pronunciation  have  ap- 
peared to  them?  To  what  did  the 
declamation  of  their  orators  approach ; 
arid  of  what  was  it  capable  ?  If  this 
was  the  case  among  the  Romans,  of 
the  Greeks  what  is  well  known  ?  How 
did  Aristotle  consider  the  music  of 
tragedy  ?  Why  was  the  case  parallel 
with  regard  to  gestures  ?  How  is  ac- 
tion treated  of  by  all  the  ancien 
critics  ?  Of  the  action  of  the  Greeks 
and  Romans  what  is  remarked  ?  How 
would  Roscius  have  seemed  to  us? 
From  the  importance  of  gesticulation 
on  the  ancient  stage,  what  haA-e  we 
reason  to  believe  ?  What  do  we  learn 
from  Cicero?  Under  the  reigns  of  Au- 
gustus and  Tiberius,  what  became  the 
favourite  entertainment  of  the  pub- 
lic ?  To  how  great  an  extent  was  it 
carried,  and  what  laws  consequently 
became  necessary  ?  What  evidence 
have  we  that  such  public;  entertain- 
ments as  have  been  mentioned,  could 
never  have  been  relished  by  a  nation 
whose  tones  and  gestures  were  as 
languid  as  ours  are?  What  effect  was 
produced  by  the  barbarians,  when  they 
spread  themselves  over  the  R-  -nan  em- 
pire ?  As  the  Latin  tongue  was  lost  in 
their  idiom,  so  what  followed?  To  what 
was  not  the  same  attention  paid  ? 
What  became  more  simple  and  plain  ; 
and  without  what  ?  What  is  said  of 
the  genius  of  language  at  the  restora- 
tion of  letters  ?  Of  our  plain  manner 
of  speaking  in  these  northern  countries, 
what  is  remarked  ?  What  is  the  effect 
of  more  varied  tones,  and  more  anima- 
ted motions  ?  Accordingly,  what  effect 
is  produced;  and  how  is  this  illustrated? 
From  the  pronunciation  of  language,  to 
what  do  we  proceed  ?  What  reason 
have  we  to  believe  that  the  language 
of  the  ancients  was  full  of  figures  and 
metaphors  ?  What  are  we,  upon  a  su- 
perficial view,  apt  to  imagine  ?  How 
does  it  appear  that  the  contrary  of  this 
is  the  truth  ?  What  is  the  first  reason 
for  this  ?  What  is  the  second ;  hence, 
what  follows ;  and  why  ?  What  other 
circumstances,  besides  necessity,  con- 
tributed to  produce  this  figurative  style; 
and  what,  consequently,  follows?  Of 
the  style  of  the  earliest  languages, 
what  is  observed  ?  Where  have  we  a 
striking  instance  of  this  ?  What  exam 
pie  is  given  ?  Repeat  it.  What  is  ano- 
ther remarkable  instance  ;  and  how  is 


65  b 


RISE  AND  PROGRESS 


[LECT.  VII, 


this  illustrated  ?  Hence,  to  what  have 
we  been  accustomed;  and  why  ?  From 
the  American  style,  what  plainly  ap- 
pears ?  Concerning  what,  may  we 
consequently  receive  some  light  ?  On 
his  subject,  what,  at  present,  is  it  suffi- 
cient to  observe  ?  When  did  language 
.ose  this  figurative  character;  and  why? 
As  style  became  more  concise,  what 
followed ;  and  what  was  its  influence 
on  the  imagination?  As  intercourse 
among  mankind  became  more  exten- 
sive, what  was  the  chief  object  of  atten- 
tion ?  How  was  prose  introduced  ? 
Among  the  Greeks,  who  was  the  first 
prose  writer ;  what  was  now  laid  aside 
from  the  intercourse  of  men  ;  and  for 
what  occas  ons  was  it  resumed  ?  Thus, 
how  has  language  been  considered ; 
and  what  remains  to  be  done  ? 


ANALYSIS. 

Language. 

a.  Its  signification. 

b.  Its  present  state. 

c.  Its  origin. 

D.  The  first  method  of  communi- 

cating thoughts. 

E.  The  principle  upon  which  lan- 

guage was  formed. 
Pronunciation. 

A.  Inflections, 

B.  Gestures. 

The  character  ofLanjjuage  changed. 
The  style  of  early  Languages. 
A .  The  employment  of  figures. 

b.  These  reasonings  confirmed 

c.  The  origin  of  Prose. 


LECTURE  VII. 


RISE  AND  PROGRESS  OF  LANGUAGE,  AND  OF 
WRITING. 

When  we  attend  to  the  order  in  which  words  are  arranged  in  a 
sentence,  or  significant  proposition,  we  find  a  very  remarkable  dif- 
ference between  the  ancient  and  the  modern  tongues.  The  consi- 
deration of  this  will  serve  to  unfold  farther  the  genius  of  language, 
and  to  show  the  causes  of  those  alterations,  which  it  has  undergone 
in  the  progress  of  society. 

In  order  to  conceive  distinctly  the  nature  of  that  alteration  of 
which  I  now  speak,  let  us  go  back,  as  we  did  formerly,  to  the  most 
early  period  of  language.  Let  us  figure  to  ourselves  a  savage,  who 
beholds  some  object,  such  as  fruit,  which  raises  his  desire,  and  who 
requests  another  to  give  it  to  him.  Supposing  our  savage  to  be  unac- 
quainted with  words,  he  would,  in  that  case,  labour  to  make  himself 
be  understood,  by  pointing  earnestly  at  the  object  which  he  desired, 
ind  uttering  at  the  same  time  a  passionate  cry.  Supposing  him  to 
have  acquired  words,  the  first  word  which  he  uttered  would,  of 
course,  be  the  name  of  that  object.  He  would  not  express  himself, 
according  to  our  English  order  of  construction,  "give  me  fruit;"  but 
according  to  the  Latin  order,  "  fruit  give  me ;"  "  fructum  da  mihi ;" 
♦or  this  plain  reason,  that  his  attention  was  wholly  directed  towards 
rruit,  the  desired  object.  This  was  the  exciting  idea ;  the  objeel 
which  moved  him  to  speak  ;  and  of  course  would  be  the  first  named. 
Such  an  arrangement  is  precisely  putting  into  words  the  gesture 


lect.  vii.]  OF  LANGUAGE.  69 

which  nature  taught  the  savage  to  make,  before  he  W£j  acquainted 
with  words ;  and  therefore  it  may  be  depended  upon  as  certain,  that 
he  would  fall  most  readily  into  this  arrangement. 

Accustomed  now  to  a  different  method  of  ordering  our  words, 
we  call  this  an  inversion,  and  consider  it  as  a  forced  and  unnatural 
order  of  speech.  But  though  not  the  most  logical,  it  is,  however, 
in  one  view,  the  most  natural  order ;  because  it  is  the  order  sug- 
gested by  imagination  and  desire,  which  always  impel  us  to  mention 
their  object  in  the  first  place.  We  might  therefore  conclude,  a  priori, 
that  this  would  be  the  order  in  which  words  were  most  commonly 
arranged  at  the  beginnings  of  language;  and  accordingly  we  find, 
in  fact;  that,  in  this  order,  words  are  arranged  in  most  of  the  an- 
cient tongues ;  as  in  the  Greek  and  the  Latin;  and  it  is  said  also,  in 
the  Russian,  the  Sclavonic,  the  Gaelic,  and  several  of  the  Ameri 
can  tongues. 

In  the  Latin  language,  the  arrangement  which  most  commonly 
obtains,  is,  to  place  first  in  the  sentence,  that  word  which  expresses 
theprincipal  object  of  the  discourse,  together  with  its  circumstances; 
and  afterwards,  the  person  or  the  thing  that  acts  upon  it.  Thus 
Sallust,  comparing  together  the  mind  and  the  body : "  Animi  imperio, 
corporis  servitio,  magis  utimur,"  which  order  certainly  renders  the 
sentence  more  lively  and  striking,  than  when  it  is  arranged  according 
to  our  English  construction ;  "we  make  most  use  of  the  direction 
of  the  soul,  and  of  the  service  of  the  body."  The  Latin  ordei 
gratifies  more  the  rapidity  of  the  imagination,  which  naturally  runs 
first  to  that  which  is  its  chief  object ;  and  having  once  named  it, 
carries  it  in  view  throughout  the  rest  of  the  sentence.  In  the  same 
manner  in  poetry : 

Justura  et  tenacem  propositi  virum, 
Non  civium  ardor  prava  jubentium, 

Non  vultus  instantis  tyranni, 

Mente  quatit  solida 

Every  person  of  taste  must  be  sensible,  that  here  the  words  are  ar- 
ranged with  a  much  greater  regard  to  the  figure  which  the  several 
objects  make  in  the  fancy,  than  our  English  construction  admits ; 
which  would  require  the  "  Justum  et  tenacem  propositi  virum," 
though  undoubtedly  the  capital  object  in  the  sentence,  to  be  thrown 
into  the  last  place. 

I  have  said,  that,  in  the  Greek  and  Roman  languages,  the  most 
common  arrangement  is,  to  place  that  first  which  strikes  the  imagi 
nation  of  the  speaker  most.  I  do  not,  however,  pretend,  that  this 
holds  without  exception.  Sometimes  regard  to  the  harmony  of  the 
period  requires  a  different  order  5  and  in  languages  susceptible  of  so 
much  musical  beauty,  and  pronounced  with  so  much  tone  and  modu- 
lation as  were  used  by  those  nations,  the  harmony  of  periods  was  an 
object  carefully  studied.  Sometimes,  too,  attention  to  the  perspi- 
cuity, to  the  force,  or  to  the  artful  suspension  of  the  speaker's  mean- 
ing, alter  this  order;  and  produce  such  varLursin  the  arrangement, 
that  it  is  not  easy  to  reduce  them  to  any  one  principle.  But,  in 
general,  this  was  the  genius  and  character  of  most  of  tho  ancient 


"0  RISE  AND  PROGRESS  [^ect.  vii 

languages,  to  give  such  full  liberty  to  the  collocation  of  words,  as 
allowed  them  to  assume  whatever  order  was  most  agreeable  to  the 
speaker's  imagination.  The  Hebrew  is,  indeed,  an  exception  ; 
which,  though  not  altogether  without  inversions,  yet  employs  them 
less  frequently,  and  approaches  nearer  to  the  English  construction, 
than  either  the  Greek  or  the  Latin. 

All  the  modern  languages  of  Europe  have  adopted  a  different  ar- 
rangement from  the  ancient.  In  their  prose  compositions,  very  lit- 
tle variety  is  admitted  in  the  collocation  of  words;  they  are  mostly 
fixed  to  one  order,  and  that  order  is,  what  may  be  called,  the  ordei 
of  the  understanding.  They  place  first  in  the  sentence,  the  person 
or.thing  which  speaks  or  acts  ;  next, its  action;  and  lastly,  the  ob- 
ject of  its  action.  So  that  the  ideas  are  made  to  succeed  to  one  an- 
other, not  according  to  the  degree  of  importance  which  the  several 
objects  carry  in  the  imagination,  but  according  to  the  order  of  nature 
and  of  time. 

An  English  writer,  paying  a  compliment  to  a  great  man,  would 
say  thus :  "it  is  impossiHe  for  me  to  pass  over  in  silence,  such  re- 
markable mildness,  such  singular  and  unheard  of  clemency,  and 
such  unusual  moderation  in  the  exercise  of  supreme  power."  Here 
we  have  first  presented  to  us,  the  person  who  speaks  :  "  It  is  im- 
possible for  me  f  next,  what  that  person  is  to  do,  "impossible  for  him 
to  pass  over  in  silence;"  and  lastly,  the  object  which  moves  him  so 
to  do,  "  the  mildness,  clemency,  and  moderation  of  his  patron." 
Cicero,  from  whom  I  have  translated  these  words,  just  reverses  this 
order;  beginning  with  the  object,  placing  that  first  which  was  the 
exciting  idea  in  the  speaker's  mind,  and  ending  with  the  speaker  and 
his  action.  "  Tantam  mansuetudinem,  tarn  inusitatam  inauditamque 
"  clementiam,  tantumque  in  summa potestate rerum omnium  modum, 
"tacitus  nullo  modo  prseterire  possum."     (Orat.  pro.  Marcell.) 

The  Latin  order  is  more  animated  ;  the  English  more  clear  and 
distinct.  The  Romans  generally  arranged  their  words  according  to 
the  order  in  which  the  ideas  rose  in  the  speaker's  imagination. — 
We  arrange  them  according  to  the  order  in  which  the  understanding 
directs  those  ideas  to  be  exhibited,  in  succession,  to  the  view  of  an- 
other. Our  arrangement, therefore,  appears  to  be  the  consequence 
of  greater  refinement  in  the  art  of  speech  ;  as  far  as  clearness  in 
communication  is  understood  to  be  the  end  of  speech. 

In  poetry,  where  we  are  supposed  to  rise  above  the  ordinary  style, 
and  to  speak  the  language  of  fancy  and  passion,  our  arrangement  is 
not  altogether  so  limited;  but  some  greater  liberty  is  allowed  for 
transposition  and  inversion.  Even  there,  however,  that  liberty  is 
confined  within  narrow  bounds,  in  comparison  of  the  ancient  lan- 
guages. The  different  modern  tongues  vary  from  one  another  in  this 
respect.  The  French  language  is,  of  them  all,  the  most  determin- 
ate in  the  order  of  its  words,  and  admits  the  least  of  inversion, 
either  in  prose  or  poetry.  The  English  admits  it  more.  But  the 
Italian  retains  the  most  of  the  ancient  transpositive  character;  though 
one  is  apt  to  think  it  attended  with  a  little  obscurity  in  the  style  of 
some  of  their  authors,  who  deal  most  in  these  transpositions. 


lect.   m.]  OF  LANGUAGE.  71 

It  is  proper  next  to  observe,  that  there  is  one  circumstance  in 
the  structure  of  all  the  modern  tongues,  which,  of  necessity,  limits 
their  arrangement,  in  a  great  measure,  to  one  fixed  and  determinate 
train.  We  have  disused  those  differences  of  termination,  which  in 
the  Greek  and  Latin,  distinguished  the  several  cases  of  nouns,  and 
tenses  of  verbs  ;  and  which,  thereby,  pointed  out  the  mutual  rela- 
tion of  the  several  words  in  a  sentence  to  one  another,  though  the 
related  words  were  disjoined,  and  placed  in  different  parts  of  the 
sentence.  This  is  an  alteration  in  the  structure  of  language,  of  which 
I  shall  have  occasion  to  say  more  in  the  next  lecture.  One  obvious 
effect  of  it  is,  that  we  have  now,  for  the  most  part,  no  way  left  Us 
to  show  the  close  relation  of  any  two  words  to  each  other  in  mean- 
ing, but  bj  placing  them  close  to  one  another  in  the  period.  For 
instance ;  tne  Romans  could,  with  propriety,  express  themselves 
thus  • 

Extinctum  nymphae  crudeli  funere  Daphnim 
Flebant 

Because  "  extinctum  &  Daphnim"  being  both  in  the  accusative  case, 
this  showed,  that  the  adjective  and  the  substantive  were  related  to 
each  other,  though  placed  at  the  two  extremities  of  the  line ;  and 
that  both  were  governed  by  the  active  verb  "flebant,"  to  which 
*'  nymphae"  plainly  appeared  to  be  the  nominative.  The  different 
terminations  here  reduced  all  into  order,  make  the  connexion 
of  the  several  words  perfectly  clear.  But  let  us  translate  these 
words  literally  into  English,  according  to  the  Latin  arrangement; 
"  dead  the  nymphs  by  a  cruel  fate  Daphnis  lamented ;"  and  they 
become  a  perfect  riddle,  in  which  it  is  impossible  to  find  any  meaning. 

It  was  by  means  of  this  contrivance,  which  obtained  in  almost  all 
thv  ancient  languages  of  varying  the  termination  of  nouns  and  verbs, 
ana  thereby  pointing  out  the  concordance  and  the  government  of 
the  words  in  a  sentence,  that  they  enjoyed  so  much  liberty  of  trans- 
position, and  could  marshal  and  arrange  their  words  in  any  way  that 
gratified  the  imagination,  or  pleased  the  ear.  When  language  came 
to  be  modelled  by  the  northern  nations,  who  overran  the  empire, 
they  dropped  the  cases  of  nouns,  and  the  different  terminations  uf 
verbs,  with  the  more  ease,  because  they  placed  no  great  value  upon 
the  advantages  arising  from  such  a  structure  of  language.  They 
were  attentive  only  to  clearness,  and  copiousness  of  expression. — 
They  neither  regarded  much  the  harmony  of  sound,  nor  sought  to 
gratify  the  imagination  by  the  collocation  of  words.  They  studied 
solely  to  express  themselves  in  such  a  manner  asshould  exhibit  their 
ideas  to  others  in  the  mostdistinctand  intelligible  order.  And  hence, 
if  our  language,  by  reason  of  the  simple  arrangement,  of  its  words, 
possesses  less  harmony,  less  beauty,  and  less  force,  than  the  Greek 
or  Latin ;  it  is,  however,  in  its  meaning,  more  obvious  and  plain. 

Thus  I  have  shown  what  the  natural  progress  of  language  has 

been,  in  several  material  articles  :  and  this  account  of  the  genius 

and  progress  of  language,  lays  a  foundation  for  many  observations. 

both  curious  and  useful.     From  what  has  been  said  in  this,  and  the 

L 


72  RISE  AND  PROGRESS  [lect.  vii 


• 


preceding  lecture,  it  appears  that  language  was  at  first  barren  in 
words,  but  descriptive  by  the  sound  of  these  words ;  and  expressive 
in  the  manner  of  uttering  them,  by  the  aid  of  significant  tones  and 
gestures :  style  was  figurative  and  poetical ;  arrangement  was  fanci- 
ful and  lively.  It  appeal's,  thai,  in  all  the  successive  changes  which 
language  has  undergone,  as  the  world  advanced,  the  understanding 
has  gained  ground  on  the  fancy  and  imagination.  The  progress  of 
language,  in  this  respect,  resembles  the  progress  of  age  in  man. — 
The  imagination  is  most  vigorous  and  predominant  in  youth;  with 
advancing  years,  the  imagination  cools,  and  the  understanding  nper.s. 
Thus  language,  proceeding  from  sterility  to  copiousness,  hath,  at 
the  same  time,  proceeded  from  vivacity  to  accuracy ;  from  fire  and 
enthusiasm,  to  coolness  and  precision.  Those  characters  of  early 
language,  descriptive  sound,  vehement  tones  and  gestures,  figurative 
style,  and  inverted  arrangement,  all  hang  together,  have  a  mutual 
influence  on  each  other,  and  have  all  gradually  given  place  to  arbi- 
trary sounds,  calm  pronunciation,  simple  style,  plain  arrangement. 
Language  is  become,  in  modern  times,  more  correct,  indeed,  and 
accurate  ;  but,  however,  less  striking  and  animated :  in  its  ancient 
state,  more  favourable  to  poetry  and  oratory ;  in  its  present,  to  reason 
and  philosophy. 

Having  finished  my  account  of  the  progress  of  speech,  I  proceed 
to  give  an  account  of  the  progress  of  writing,  which  next  demands 
our  notice ;  though  it  will  not  require  so  full  a  discussion  as  the  for- 
mer subject. 

s  Next  to  speech,  writing  is  beyond  doubt,  the  most  useful  art 
which  men  possess.  It  is  plainly  an  improvement  upon  speech,  and 
therefore  must  have  been  posterior  to  it  in  order  of  time.  At  first, 
men  thought  of  nothing  more  than  communicating  their  thoughts 
to  one  another,  when  present,  by  means  of  words,  or  sounds,  which 
they  uttered.  Afterwards,  they  devised  this  further  method,  of  mu- 
tual communication  with  one  another,  when  absent,  by  means  ol 
marks  or  characters  presented  to  the  eye,  which  we  call  writing. 

Written  characters  are  of  two  sorts.  They  are  either  signs  for 
things,  or  signs  for  words.  Of  the  former  sort,  signs  of  things,  are 
I  he  pictures,  hieroglyphics,  and  symbols,  employed  by  the  ancient 
nations  ;  of  the  latter  sort,  signs  for  words,  are  the  alphabetical 
characters  now  employed  by  all  Europeans.  These  two  kinds  ol 
writing  are  generically  and  essentially  distinct 

Pictures  were,  undoubtedly,  the  first  essay  towards  writing.  Imi- 
tation is  so  natural  to  man,  that,  in  all  ages,  and  among  all  nations, 
some  methods  have  obtained,  of  copying  or  tracing  the  likeness  of 
sensible  objects.  Those  methods  would  soon  be  employed  by  men 
for  giving  some  imperfect  information  to  others,  at  a  distance,  of 
what  had  happened ;  or  for  preserving  the  memory  of  facts  which 
they  sought  to  record.  Thus,  to  signify  that  one  man  had  killed 
another,  they  drew  the  figure  of  one  man  stretched  upon  the  earth, 
and  of  another  standing  by  him  with  a  deadly  weapon  in  his  hand 
We  find,  in  fact,  that  when  America  was  first  discovered,  this  was 
the  only  sort  of  writing  known  in  the  kingdom  of  Mexico.   By  his- 


lect.  vii.]  ,      OF  WRITING.  73 

torical  pictures,  the  Mexicans  are  said  to  have  transmitted  me  me- 
mory of  the  most  important  transactions  of  their  empire.  These, 
however,  must  have  been  extremely  imperfect  records  ;  and  the 
nations  who  had  no  other,  must  have  been  very  gross  and  rude. — 
Pictures  could  do  no  more  than  delineate  external  events.  They 
could  neither  exhibit  the  connexions  of  them,  nor  describe  such 
qualities  as  were  not  visible  to  the  eye,  nor  convey  any  idea  of  the 
dispositions  or  words  of  men. 

To  supply,  in  some  degree,  this  defect,  there  arose,  in  process 
of  time,  the  invention  of  what  are  called  hieroglyphical  characters 
which  may  be  considered  as  the  second  stage  of  the  art  of  writing 
Hieroglyphics  consist  in  certain  symbols,  which  are  made  to  stand 
for  invisible'  objects,  on  account  of  an  analogy  or  resemblance  which 
such  symbols  were  supposed  to  bear  to  the  objects.  Thus,  an  eye, 
was  the  hieroglyphical  symbol  of  knowledge ;  a  circle,  of  eternity, 
which  has  neither  beginning  nor  end.  Hieroglyphics,  therefore, 
were  a  more  refined  and  extensive  species  of  painting.  Pictures 
delineated  the  resemblance  of  external  visible  objects.  Hiero- 
glyphics painted  invisible  objects,  by  analogies  taken  from  the  ex- 
ternal world. 

Among  the  Mexicans,  were  found  some  traces  of  hieroglyphical 
characters,  intermixed  with  their  historical  pictures.  But  Egypt 
was  the  country  where  this  sort  of  writing  was  most  studied,  and 
brought  into  a  regular  art.  In  hieroglyphics  w; .  conveyed  all  the 
boasted  wisdom  of  their  priests.  According  to  the  properties  which 
they  ascribe  to  animals,  or  the  qualities  with  which  they  supposed 
natural  objects  to  be  endowed,  they  pitched  upon  them  to  be  the 
emblems,  or  hieroglyphics,  of  moral  objects  ;  and  employed  them 
in  their  writing  for  that  end.  Thus,  ingratitude  was  denominated 
by  a  viper;  imprudence,  by  a  fly ;  wisdom,  by  an  ant;  victory,  by  a 
hawk;  a  dutiful  child,  by  a  stork;  a  man  universally  shunned,  by 
an  eel,  which  they  supposed  to  be  found  in  company  with  no  other 
fish.  Sometimes  they  joined  together  two  or  more  of  these  hiero- 
glyphical characters;  as,  a  serpent  with  a  hawk's  head,  to  denote 
nature,  with  God  presiding  over  it.  But,  as  many  of  those  pro- 
perties of  objects  which  they  assumed  for  the  foundation  of  their 
hieroglyphics,  were  merely  imaginary,  and  the  allusions  drawn  from 
them  were  forced  and  ambiguous;  as  the  conjunction  of  their  charac- 
ters rendered  them  still  more  obscure,  and  must  have  expressed  very 
indistinctly  the  connexions  and  relations  of  things;  this  sort  of  wri- 
ting could  be  no  other  than  enigmatical,  and  confused  in  the  highest 
degree;  and  must  have  been  a  very  imperfect  vehicle  of  knowledge 
of  any  kind. 

It  has  been  imagined,  that  hieroglyphics  were  an  invention  of  the 
Egyptian  priests,  for  concealing  their  learning  from  common  view ; 
and  that,  upon  this  account,  it  was  preferred  by  them  to  the  alpha- 
betical method  of  writing.  But  this  is  certainly  a  mistake.  Hie- 
roglyphics were,  undoubtedly,  employed  at  first  from  necessit}^  not 
from  choice  or  refinement;  and  would  never  have  been  thought  ot, 

10 


74  RISE  AND  PROGRESS  [lect.  to. 

if  alphabe  tical  characters  had  been  known.  The  nature  of  the  in- 
vention plainly  shows  it  to  have  been  one  of  those  gross  and  rude 
essays  towards  writing,  which  were  adopted  in  the  early  ages  of  the 
world,  in  order  to  extend  farther  the  first  method  which  they  had 
employed  of  simple  pictures,  or  representations  of  visible  objects. 
Indeed,  in  after  times,  when  alphabetical  writing  was  introduced  into 
Egypt,  and  the  hieroglyphical  was,  of  course,  fallen  into  disuse,  it 
is  known,  that  the  priests  still  employed  the  hieroglyphical  charac- 
ters, as  a  sacred  kind  of  writing,  now  become  peculiar  to  themselves, 
and  serving  to  give  an  air  of  mystery  to  their  learning  and  religion. 
In  this  state,  the  Greeks  found  hieroglyphical  writing,  when  they 
began  to  have  intercourse  with  Egypt;  and  some  of  their  writers 
mistook  this  use,  to  which  they  found  it  applied,  for  the  cause  that 
had  given  rise  to  the  invention. 

As  writing  advanced,  from  pictures  of  visible  objects,  to  hiero- 
glyphics, or  symbols  of  things  invisible ;  from  these  latter,  it  advanc- 
ed, among  some  nations,  to  simple  arbitrary  marks  which  stood  fo^ 
objects,  though  without  any  resemblance  or  analogy  to  the  objects 
signified.  Of  this  nature  was  the  method  of  writing  practised  among 
the  Peruvians.  They  made  use  of  small  cords,  of  different  colours ; 
and  by  knots  upon  these,  of  various  sizes,  and  differently  ranged, 
they  contrived  signs  for  giving  information,  and  communicating  their 
thoughts  to  one  another. 

Of  this  nature  also,  are  the  written  characters,  which  are  used  to 
this  day  throughout  the  great  empire  of  China.  The  Chinese  have 
no  alphabet  of  letters,  or  simple  sounds,  which  compose  their  words. 
But  every  single  character  which  they  use  in  writing,  is  significant 
of  an  idea;  it  is  a  mark  which  stands  for  some  one  thing,  or  object. 
By  consequence,  the  number  of  these  characters  must  be  immense. 
It  must  correspond  to  the  whole  number  of  objects,  or  ideas,  which 
they  have  occasion  to  express  ;  that  is,  to  the  whole  number  of 
words  which  they  employ  in  speech;  nay,-  it  must  be  greater  than 
the  number  of  words ;  one  word,  by  varying  the  tone  with  which 
it  is  spoken,  may  be  made  to  signify  several  different  things.  They 
are  said  to  have  seventy  thousand  of  those  written  characters.  To 
read  and  write  them  to  perfection,  is  the  study  of  a  whole  life ; 
which  subjects  learning,  among  them,  to  infinite  disadvantage;  and 
must  have  greatly  retarded  the  progress  of  all  science. 

Concerning  the  origin  of  these  Chinese  characters,  there  have 
been  different  opinions,  and  much  controversy.  According  to  the 
most  probable  accounts,  the  Chinese  writing  began,  like  the  Egyp- 
tian, with  pictures  and  hieroglyphical  figures.  These  figures  being, 
in  progress,  abbreviated  in  their  form,  for  the  sake  of  writing  them 
easily,  and  greatly  enlarged  in  their  number,  passed,  at  length,  into 
those  marks  or  characters  which  they  now  use,  and  which  have 
spread  themselves  through  several  "nations  of  the  east.  For  we  are 
informed,  that  the  Japanese,  tne  Tonquinese,  and  the  Coroeans, 
who  speak  different  languages  from  one  another,  and  from  the  in- 
habitants of  China,  use,  however,  the  same  written  characters  with 
them;  and,  by  this  means,correspond  intelligibly  with  each  other  in 


lect.  vii.]  OF  WRITING.  75 

writing,  though  ignorant  of  the  language  spoken  in  their  several 
countries;  a  plain  proof,  that  the  Chinese  characters  are,  like  hie 
roglyphics,  independent  of  language:  are  signs  of  things,  not  of  words. 
We  have  one  instance  of  this  sort  of  writing  in  Europe.  Our 
cyphers,  as  they  are  called,  or  arithmetical  figures,  1,  2,  3,  4,  &c. 
which  we  have  derived  from  the  Arabians;  are  significant  marks, 
precisely  of  the  same  nature  with  the  Chinese  characters.  Thej 
have  no  dependence  on  words ;  but  each  figure  denotes  an  object, 
denotes  the  number  for  which  it  stands;  and,  accordingly,  on  be- 
ing presented  to  the  eye,  is  equally  understood  by  all  the  nations 
who  have  agreed  in  the  use  of  these  cyphers;  by  Italians,  Spaniards, 
French,  and  English,  however  different  the  languages  of  those  na- 
tions are  from  one  another,  and  whatever  different  names  they  give, 
in  their  respective  languages,  to  each  numerical  cypher. 

As  far, then,  as  we  have  yet  advanced,  nothing  has  appeared  which 
resembles  our  letters,  or  which  can  be  called  writing,  in  the  sense 
we  now  give  to  that  term.  What  we  have  hitherto  seen,  were  all 
direct  signs  for  things,  and  made  no  use  of  the  medium  of  sound, 
or  words;  either  signs  by  representation,  as  the  Mexican  pictures; 
or  signs  by  analogy,  as  the  Egyptian  hieroglyphics;  or  signs  by  in- 
stitution, as  the  Peruvian  knots,  the  Chinese  characters,  and  the 
Arabian  cyphers. 

At  length,  in  different  nations,  men  became  sensible  of  the  im- 
perfection, the  ambiguity,  and  the  tediousness  of  each  of  these 
methods  of  communication  with  one  another.  They  began  to  con- 
sider, that  by  employing  signs  which  would  stand  not  directly  for 
things,  but  for  the  words  which  they  used  in  speech  for  naming  these 
things,  a  considerable  advantage  would  be  gained.  For  they  re- 
flected farther,  that  though  the  number  of  words  in  every  language 
be,  indeed,  very  great,  yet  the  number  of  articulate  sounds,  which 
are  used  in  composing  these  words,  is  comparatively  small.  The 
same  simple  sounds  are  continually  recurring  and  repeated;  and  are 
combined  together,  in  various  ways,  for  forming  all  the  variety  of 
words  which  we  utter.  They  bethought  themsel  ves,  therefore,  of 
inventing  signs,  not  for  each  word  by  itself,  but  for  each  of  those 
simple  sounds  which  we  employ  in  forming  our  words;  and,  by 
joining  together  a  few  of  those  signs,  they  saw  that  it  would  be 
practicable  to  express,  in  writing,  the  whole  combinations  of  sounds 
which  our  words  require. 

The  first  step,  in  this  new  progress,  was  the  invention  of  an  al- 
phabet of  syllables,  which  probably  preceded  the  invention  of  an  al- 
phabet of  letters,  among  some  of  the  ancient  nations;  and  which 
is  said  to  be  retained  to  this  day  in  ^Ethiopia,  and  some  countries 
of  India.  By  fixing  upon  a  particular  mark,  or  character,  for  every 
syllable  in  the  language,  the  number  of  characters,  necessary  to  be 
used  in  writing,  was  reduced  within  a  much  smaller  compass  than 
the  number  of  words  in  the  language.  Still,  however,  the  number 
of  characters  was  great;  and  must  have  continued  to  render  both 
reading  and  writing  very  laborious  arts.  Till,  at  last,  some  happy 
genius  arose,  and  tracing  the  sounds,  made  by  the  human  voice,  to 


7b  RISE  AND  PROGRESS  [lect.  vit 

their  m&st  simple  elements,  reduced  them  to  a  very  few  vowels  and 
consonants;  and,  by  affixing  to  each  of  these,  the  signs  which  we  now 
call  letters,  taught  men  how,  by  their  combinations,  to  put  in  writing 
all  the  different  words,  or  combinations  of  sound,  which  they  em- 
ployed in  speech.  By  being  reduced  to  this  simplicity,  the  art  of 
writing  was  brought  to  its  highest  state  of  perfection;  and  in  this 
frtate,  we  now  enjoy  it  in  all  the  countries  of  Europe. 

To  whom  we  are  indebted  for  this  sublime  and  refined  discovery, 
does  not  appear.  Concealed  by  the  darkness  of  remote  antiquity, 
the  great  inventer  is  deprived  of  those  honours  which  would  still  be 
paid  to  his  memory,  by  all  the  lovers  of  knowledge  and  learning. 
It  appears  from  the  books  which  Moses  has  written,  that  among  the 
Jews,  and  probably  among  the  Egyptians,  letters  had  been  invented 
prior  to  his  age.  The  universal  tradition  among  the  ancients  is,  that 
they  were  first  imported  into  Greece  oy  Cadmus  the  Phoenician ; 
who,  according  to  the  common  system  of  chronology,  was  cotempo- 
rary  with  Joshua;  according  to  sir  Isaac  Newton's  system,  cotempo- 
rary  with  king  David.  As  the  Phoenicians  are  not  known  to  have  been 
the  inventers  of  any  art  or  science,  though,  by  means  of  their  ex- 
tensive commerce,  they  propagated  the  discoveries  made  by  other 
nations,  the  most  probable  and  natural  account  of  the  origin  of  al- 
phabetical characters  is,  that  they  took  rise  in  Egypt,  the  first  civi- 
lized kingdom  of  which  we  have  any  authentic  accounts,  and  the  great 
source  of  arts  and  polity  among  the  ancients.  In  that  country,  the 
favourite  study  of  hieroglyphical  characters,  had  directed  much 
attention  to  the  art  of  writing.  Their  hieroglyphics  are  known  to 
have  been  intermixed  with  abbreviated  symbols,  and  arbitrary 
marks;  whence,  at  last,  they  caught  the  idea  of  contriving  marks, 
notfor  things  merely,  butfor  sounds.  Accordingly  Plato  (in  Phsedo) 
expressly  attributes  the  invention  of  letters  to  Theuth,  the  Egyptian, 
who  is  supposed  to  have  been  the  Hermes,  or  Mercury,  of  the 
Greeks.  Cadmus  himself,  though  he  passed  from  Phoenicia  to 
Greece,  yet  is  affirmed,  by  several  of  the  ancients,  to  have  been  ori- 
ginally of  Thebes  in  Egypt.  Most  probably,  Moses  carried  with  him 
the  Egyptian  letters  into  the  land  of  Canaan  ;  and  there  |being 
adopted  by  the  Phoenicians,  who  inhabited  part  of  that  country,  they 
were  transmitted  into  Greece. 

The  alphabet  which  Cadmus  brought  into  Greece  was  imperfect, 
and  is  said  to  hove  contained  only  sixteen  letters.  The  rest  were  after- 
wards added,  according  as  signs  for  proper  sounds  were  found  to  be 
wanting.  It  is  curious  to  observe,  that  the  letters  which  we  use  at 
this  day,  can  be  traced  back  to  this  ver  alphabet  of  Cadmus.  The 
Roman  alphabet,  which  obtains  with  us,  and  with  most  of  the  Eu- 
ropean nations,  is  plainly  formed  on  the  Greek,  with  a  few  variations. 
And  all  learned  men  observe,  that  the  Greek  characters,  especially 
according  to  the  manner  in  which  they  are  formed  in  the  oldest  in- 
scriptions, have  a  remarkable  conformity  with  the  Hebrew  or  Sama- 
ritan characters,  which,  it  is  agreed,  are  the  same  with  the  Phoenician, 
crthe  alphabet  of  Cadmus.  Invert  the  Greek  characters  from  left 
to  right,  according  to  the  Phoenician  and  Hebrew  manner  of  wr: 


usci.  vir.]  OF  WRITING.  T 

ting,  and  they  are  nearly  the  same.  Besides  the  conformity  of 
figuie,  the  names  or  denominations  of  the  letters,  alpha,  beta,  gamma, 
&c.  and  the  order  in  which  the  letters  are  arranged,  in  all  the  several 
alphabets,  Phoenician,  Hebrew,  Greek,  and  Roman,  agree  so  much 
as  amounts  to  a  demonstration,  that  they  were  all  derived  originally 
from  the  same  source.  An  invention  so  useful  and  simple  was  gree- 
dily received  by  mankind,  and  propagated  with  speed  and  facility 
through  many  different  nations. 

The  letters  were  originally  written  from  the  right  hand  towards 
the  left ;  that  is,  in  a  contrary  order  to  what  we  now  practise.  This 
manner  of  writing  obtained  among  the  Assyrians,  Phoenicians,  Ara- 
bians, and  Hebrews ;  and  from  some  very  old  inscriptions,  appears 
to  have  obtained  also  among  the  Greeks.  Afterwards,  the  Greeks 
adopted  a  new  method,  writing  their  lines  alternately  from  the  right 
to  the  left,  and  from  the  left  to  the  right,  which  was  called  Bovstro- 
phedon ;  or,  writing  after  the  manner  in  which  oxen  plough  tfea 
ground.  Of  this,  several  specimens  still  remain ;  particularly,  the 
inscription  on  the  famous  Sigean  monument;  and  down  to  the  days 
of  Solon,  the  legislator  of  Athens,  this  continued  to  be  the  com- 
mon method  of  writing.  At  length,  the  motion  from  the  left  hand 
to  the  right  being  found  more  natural  and  commodious,  the  practice 
of  writing,  in  tnis  direction,  prevailed  throughout  all  the  countries 
of  Europe. 

Writing  was  long  a  kind  ot  engraving.  Pillars,  and  tables  of 
stone,  were  first  employed  for  this  purpose,  and  afterwards  plates  oi 
the  softer  metals,  such  as  lead.  In  proportion  as  writing  becamt 
more  common,  lighter  and  more  portable  substances  were  employ- 
ed. The  leaves,  and  the  bark  of  certain  trees,  were  used  in  some 
countries :  and  in  others,  tablets  of  wood,  covered  with  a  thin  coat 
of  soft  wax,  on  which  the  impression  was  made  with  a  stylus  of  iron. 
In  later  times,  the  hides  of  animals,  properly  prepared  and  polished 
into  parchment,  were  the  most  common  materials.  Our  present 
method  of  writing  on  paper,  is  an  invention  of  no  greater  antiquity 
than  the  fourteenth  century. 

Thus  I  have  given  some  account  o-  the  progress  of  these  two 
great  arts,  speech  and  writing;  by  which  men's  thoughts  are  com- 
municated, and  the  foundation  laid  for  all  knowledge  and  improve- 
ment. Let  us  conclude  the  subject,  with  comparing  in  a  few  words, 
spoken  language,  and  written  language ;  or  words  uttered  in  oui 
hearing,  with  words  represented  to  the  eye  ;  where  we  shall  find 
several  advantages  and  disadvantages  to  be  balanced  on  both  sides. 

The  advantages  of  writing  above  speech  are,  that  writing  is  both 
the  more  extensive,  and  a  more  permanent  method  of  communication. 
More  extensive,  as  it  is  not  confined  within  the  narrow  circle  of  those 
who  hear  our  words,  but,  by  means  of  written  characters,  we  can 
send  our  thoughts  abroad,  and  propagate  them  through  the  world ; 
we  can  lift  our  voice,  so  as  to  speak  to  the  most  distant  regions  of 
the  earth.  More  permanent  also ;  as  it  prolongs  this  voice  to  the 
most  distant  ages;  it  gives  us  the  means  of  recording  our  senti- 
ments to  futurity,  and  of  perpetuating  the  instructive  memory  of 


78 


RISE  AND  PROGRESS,  &c.  [lect.  v. 


past  transactions.  It  likewise  affords  this  advantage  to  such  as  read, 
above  such  as  hear,  that,  having  the  written  characters  before  thei: 
eyes,  they  can  arrest  the  sense  of  the  writer.  They  can  pause,  and 
revolve,  and  compare,  at  their  leisure,  one  passage  with  another  : 
whereas,  the  voice  is  fugitive  and  passing  ;  you  must  catch  the  words 
the  moment  they  are  uttered,  or  you  lose  them  for  ever. 

But,  although  these  be  so  great  advantages  of  written  language, 
that  speech,  without  writing,  would  have  been  very  inadequate  for 
the  instruction  of  mankind  ;  yet  we  must  not  forget  to  observe,  that 
spoken  language  has  a  great  superiority  over  written  language,  in 
point  of  energy  or  force.  The  voice  of  the  living  speaker,  makes 
an  impression  on  the  mind,  much  stronger  than  can  be  made  by  the 
perusal  of  any  writing.  The  tones  of  voice,  the  looks  and  gesture, 
which  accompany  discourse,  and  which  no  writing  can  convey,  ren- 
der discourse,  when  it  is  well  managed,  infinitely  more  clear,  and 
more  expressive,  than  the  most  accurate  writing.  For  tones,  looks, 
and  gestures,  are  natural  interpreters  of  the  sentiments  of  the  mind. 
They  remove  ambiguities  ;  they  enforce  impressions  ;  they  operate 
on  us  by  means  of  sympathy,  which  is  one  of  the  most  powerful  in- 
struments of  persuasion.  Our  sympathy  is  always  awakened  more,, 
by  hearing  the  speaker,  than  by  reading  his  works  in  our  closet. 
Hence,  though  writing  may  answer  the  purposes  of  mere  instruction, 
yet  all  the  great  and  high  efforts  of  eloquence  must  be  made  by 
means  of  spoken,  not  of  written  language. 

QUESTIONS. 


In  attending  to  the  order  in  which 
words  are  arranged  in  a  sentence,  what 
do  we  find  ?  What  advantage  will  a 
consideration  of  this  difference  afford  ? 
Th  it  we  may  conceive  clearly  the  na- 
ture of  this  difference,  what  is  neces- 
say?  What  must  we  figure  to  cur- 
s'.- /es  ?  Unacquainted  with  words,  how 
w  'aid  he  proceed  ?  Having  acquired 
w  ds,  what  one  would  he  first  utter  ? 
1  v  would  he  express  himself,  and  for 
v  Lat  reason?  Of  such  an  arrangement, 
what  is  remarked  ?  What  do  we  now 
call  this  order ;  why ;  and  how  do  Ave 
consider  it?  Though  not  the  most  logical, 
yet  why  is  it  the  most  natural  order  ? 
What  might  we  therefore  conclude ; 
and  accordingly,  what  do  we  find  ? 
What  arrangement,  in  the  Latin  lan- 
guage, most  commonly  obtains,  and 
what  example  is  given?  What  does 
the  Latin  order  gratify?  In  the  exam- 
ple here  given,  of  what  must  every 
person  of  taste  be  sensible  ?  In  the 
Creek  and  Roman  languages,  what  is 
the  most  common  arrangement  ?  What, 
sometimes,  requires  a  different  order ; 
and  what  remark  follows  ?  Sometimes. 


what  was  the  genius  and  character  of 
most  of  the  ancient  languages  ?  What 
one  is  an  exception  ;  and  what  is  said 
of  it  ?  Of  the  prose  compositions  of  mo- 
dern languages,  what  is  remarked , 
and  what  may  that  order  be  railed  1 
How  do  they  dispose  of  the  parts  of 
their  sentences;  and  what  follows? 
By  what  example  is  this  remark  illus- 
trated? Here,  what  have  we  present- 
ed to  us?  What  order  would  Cicero 
have  used  ?  How  do  these  two  orders 
compare  with  each  other?  How  did 
the  Romans  generally  arrange  their 
words  ?  How  do  we  arrange  them  ?  Of 
what  does  our  arrangement  appear  to 
be  the  consequence ;  and  how  far  ?  Of 
our  arrangement  in  poetry,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  In  what  order  do  different 
modern  tongues  vary  in  this  respect  ? 
What  is  it  proper  next  *.o  observe? 
What  is  that  circumstance  ?  What  is 
one  obvious  effect  of  this?  What  illus- 
tration of  this  remark  is  given  ?  By 
means  of  this  contrivance,  what  did 
the  ancients  enjoy  ?  When  were  these 
cases  of  nouns  and  terminations  of 
verbs  dropped ;  and  why  ?  To   what 


tuo.  what  alters  this  order ;  and  what  only  were  they  attentive?  What  did 
effect  would  it  produce?  In  general,' they  not  much   regard;  what  solely 


LECT.  VII.] 


QUESTIONS. 


78 


study ;  and  hence  what  follows  ?  Thus, 
what  has  been  shown ;  and  for  what 
does  it  lay  a  foundation  ?  From  what 
has  been  said  in  this,  and  the  preceding 
lecture,  what  appears  evident  1  In  the 
successive  changes  which  language  has 
undergone,  what,  also,  is  evident  ?  In 
this  respect,  what  does  the  progress  of 
language  resemble  ?  How  is  this  illustra- 
ted ?  What  were  the  characteristics  of 
early  language,  and  to  what  have  they 
all  gradually  given  place?  How  do 
the  modern  and  ancient  characters  of 
language  compare  ?  In  its  ancient 
state,  to  what  was  it  most  favourable ; 
and  to  what  is  it  most  favourable  in 
its  modern?  Having  finished  his  ac- 
count of  the  progress  of  speech,  to  what 
does  our  author  next  proceed ;  and 
what  does  he  say  of  it  ?  Next  to  speech, 
what  is  the  most  useful  art  that  men 
possess  ?  As  it  is  plainly  an  improve- 
ment upon  speech,  what  necessarily 
follows  ?  Of  what  only  did  men  at  first 
think ;  and  what  did  they  afterwards 
devise  ?  Of  what  two  sorts  are  written 
characters?  What  are  examples  of  the 
former;  and  of  the  latter?  What 
were,  doubtless,  the  first  essay  towards 
writing;  and  why?  For  what  purposes 
would  those  methods  soon  be  employ- 
ed 1  How  is  this  illustrated  ?  Where  do 
we  find  this  method  to  have  prevailed ; 
and  at  what  time  ?  '  The  memory  of 
what  did  the  Mexicans  transmit  by  his- 
torical pictures  ?  Of  these  records,  and 
of  the  nations  who  had  no  other,  what 
is  remarked?  What  only  could  pic- 
tures delineate ;  and  what  could  they 
not  do  ?  To  supply,  in  some  degree, 
this  defect,  what,  in  process  of  time, 
arose  ;  and  how  may  they  be  consider- 
ed ?  In  what  do  hieroglyphics  consist  ? 
What  examples  are  given  ?  What  ad- 
vantage had  hieroglyphics  over  pic- 
tures? What  did  pictures  delineate? 
What  did  hieroglyphics  paint ;  and 
how  ?  Among  the  Mexicans,  what 
were  found  ?  Where  was  this  kind  of 
writing  most  studied,  and  brought  to  a 
regular  art?  In  hieroglyphics,  what 
was  conveyed  ?  By  what  were  they 
governed  in  forming  them  ?  How  is 
this  remark  illustrated  ?  What  did  they 
sometimes  join  together ;  and  what  ex- 
ample is  given  7  Why  was  this  sort 
of  writing  enigmatical  and  confused, 
and  a  very  imperfect  vehicle  of  know- 
ledge of  any  kind  ? 
Who,  has  it  been  imagined,  invented 

M 


hieroglyphics ;  and  for  what  purpose  ? 
How  does  it  appear  that  this  is  certain- 
ly a  misiake  ?  What  does  the  nature 
of  the  invention  plainly  show  it  to  have 
been?  After  alphabetical  writing  was 
introduced  into  Egypt,  for  what  pur 
pose  did  the  priests  still  employ  hiero- 
glyphical  characters  ?  Who  found  hic- 
roglyphical  writing  in  this  state ;  and 
what  was  the  consequence?  As  wri- 
ting advanced  from  pictures  to  hiero- 
glyphics, from  these  latter  to  what  did  it 
advance  ?  Where  was  this  kind  of  wri- 
ting practised  ?  What  method  did  they 
contrive  to  give  information,  or  com- 
municate their  thoughts  to  one  an- 
other ?  Where  are  these  characters  at 
present  used  ?  As  the  Chinese  have  no 
alphabet  of  letters,  howare  their  words 
composed ;  and  what  is  the  conse- 
quence ?  To  what  must  the  number  ol 
these  characters  correspond  ?  How 
many  of  them  are  they  said  to  have  ? 
What  time  does  it  require  to  learn  to 
read  and  to  write  them  correctly ;  and 
to  what  does  this  subject  learning  ?  In 
what  manner,  is  it  probable,  the  Chi- 
nese proceeded  in  forming  these  cha- 
racters ?  What  reason  have  we  for  be- 
lieving this  to  have  been  the  case  ? 
What  instance  of  this  sort  of  writing 
have  we  in  Europe ;  and  whence  did 
we  derive  it  ?  Of  these  figures,  what  is 
observed;  and  accordingly,  what  fol 
lows?  As  far  as  we  have  advanced, 
what  has  not  appeared  ?  Of  what  we 
have  hitherto  seen,  what  is  observed  ; 
and  what  examples  are  given  ?  Of 
what  did  men  at  length  become  sensi- 
ble? How  did  they  begin  to  consider 
that  much  advantage  would  be  gain- 
ed? On  what  did  they  reflect  ?  Of  the 
same  simple  sounds,  what  is  remarked  ? 
Of  what  did  they  therefore  bethinl* 
themselves  ?  In  this  new  progress, 
what  was  the  first  step ;  hnd  what  is 
said  of  it  ?  How  was  the  number  of 
characters  in  writing  reduced  to  a 
much  smaller  compass  than  the  num- 
ber of  words  in  the  language?  Still,  of 
the  number  of  characters,  what  is  ol»- 
served?  At  length,  by  some  happy 
genius,  what  was  effected  ?  By  being 
reduced  to  this  simplicity,  to  what  was 
the  art  of  writing  brought  ?  Of  the  au- 
thor of  this  sublime  discovery,  what  is 
observed  ?  What  appears,  from  the 
books  of  Moses?  What  is  the  tradition 
among  the  ancients ;  and  with  whom 
was  he  contemporary  ?  Of  the  Phuuii 


78  6 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  VII. 


eians,  what  is  said ;  and  what  infer- 
ence follows?  In  that  country,  to 
what  had  the  favourite  study  of  hiero- 
glyphics directed  much  attention  ;  and 
oi  mem,  what  is  known  ?  Accordingly, 
to  whom  does  Plato  attribute  the  in- 
vention of  letters  ?  Of  what  nation  was 
Cadmus,  originally  ?  How,  is  it  proba- 
ble, these  characters  were  introduced 
to  the  Phoenicians  ?  How  many  letters 
did  the  alphabet  of  Cadmus  contain  ; 
and  how  were  the  rest  added  ?  What 
is  it  curious  to  observe  ?  Of  the  Roman 
alphabet,  what  is  said;  and  of  the 
Greek,  what  do  all  the  learned  observe  ? 
How  will  the  Greek  and  Hebrew  cha- 
racters appear  nearly  the  same  ?  What 
amounts  to  a  demonstration  that  they 
were  all  originally  derived  from  the 
same  source ;  and  how  was  this  inven- 
tion received  ?  How  were  the  letters 
originally  written ;  and  where  did  this 
method  obtain'?  What  method  was 
adopted  by  the  Greeks  ?  Of  this  me- 
thod, what  specimens  remain ;  and  how 
long  did  it  continue  ?  At  length,  what 
method  prevailed;  and  why?  What 
were  at  first  employed  for  purposes  of 
writing;  and  what  several  improve- 
ments succeeded?  When  was  paper 
invented  ?  Thus,  an  account  of  what 
has  been  given ;  and  with  what  is  the 


subject  concluded?  What  advantages 
have  writing  above  speech  ?  Why  is  it 
more  extensive;  and  why  more  per- 
manent? What  advantage  does  it 
likewise  afford ;  and  why?  But.  al- 
though these  are  the  advantages  of 
written  language,  yet  whatmusl  we  not 
forget  ?  Repeat  the  succeeding  remarks, 
on  the  advantages  of  spoken  language. 
Hence,  what  follows  ? 


ANALYSIS. 

1.  Arrangement. 

A.  The  origin  of  arrangement. 

B.  Arrangement  of  the  Greek  and 
Latin  languages. 

c.  Arrangement  of   modern    lan- 
guages. 
a.  Necessarily  limited. 

2.  Writing. 

Division  of  written  characters. 

A.  Signs  of  things. 

a.  Pictures. 

b.  Hieroglyphical  characters. 

c.  Arbitrary  marks. 

B.  Signs  for  words. 

a.  The  alphabet  of  syllables. 

b.  Alphabetical  characters. 

3.  Comparative  advantages  of  speech 
and  writing. 


LECTURE  VIII. 

STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE. 

After  having  given  an  account  of  the  rise  and  progress  of  Ian 
guage,  I  proceed  to  treat  of  its  structure,  or  of  general  grammar. 
The  structure  of  language  is  extremely  artificial ;  and  there  are  few 
sciences  in  which  a  deeper,  or  more  refined  logic  is  employed,  than 
in  grammar.  It  is  apt  to  be  slighted  by  superficial  thinkers  as  be 
longing  to  those  rudiments  of  knowledge,  which  were  inculcated 
upon  us  in  our  earliest  youth.  But  what  was  then  inculcated  before 
we  could  comprehend  its  principles,  would  abundantly  repay  our 
study  in  maturer  years  ;  and  to  the  ignorance  of  it,  must  be  attribu- 
ted many  of  those  fundamental  defects  which  appear  in  writing. 

Few  authors  have  written  with  philosophical  accuracy  on  the 
principles  of  general  grammar  ;  and  what  is  more  to  be  regretted, 
fewer  still  have  thought  of  applying  those  principles  to  the  English 
language.  While  the  French  tongue  has  long  been  an  object  of 
attention  to  many  able  and  ingenious  writers  of  that  nation,  who 
have  considered  its  construction,  and  determined  its  propriety  with 
great  accuracy,  the  genius  and  grammar  of  the  English,  to  the  re- 
proach of  the  country,  have  not  been   studied  with  equal  care,  oi 


lect.  vni.J     STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.  79 

ascertained  with  the  same  precision.  Attempts  have  been  made, 
indeed,  of  late,  towards  supplying  this  defect ;  and  some  able  wri- 
ters have  entered  on  the  subject ;  but  much  remains  yet  to  be  done. 

I  do  not  propose  to  give  any  system,  either  of  grammar  in  gene- 
ral, or  of  English  grammar  in  particular.  A  minute  discussion  ot 
the  niceties  of  language  would  carry  us  too  much  off  from  other  ob- 
jects, which  demand  our  attention  in  the  course  of  lectures.  But 
I  propose  to  give  a  general  view  of  the  chief  principles  relating  to 
this  subject,  in  observations  on  the  several  parts  of  which  speech  or 
language  is  composed ;  remarking,  as  I  go  along,  the  peculiarities 
of  our  own  tongue.  After  which,  I  shall  make  some  more  particu- 
lar remarks  on  the  genius  of  the  English  language. 

The  first  thing  to  be  considered  is,  the  division  of  the  several  parts 
of  speech.  The  essential  parts  of  speech  are  the  same  in  all  langua- 
ges. There  must  always  be  some  words  which  denote  the  names 
of  objects,  or  mark  the  subject  of  discourse ;  other  words,  which  de- 
note the  qualities  of  those  objects,  and  express  what  we  affirm  con- 
cerning them;  and  other  words,  which  point  out  their  connexions 
and  relations.  Hence,  substantives,  pronouns,  adjectives,  verbs, 
prepositions,  and  conjunctions,  must  necessarily  be  found  in  all  lan- 
guages. The  most  simple  and  comprehensive  division  of  the  parts 
of  speech  is,  into  substantives,  attributives,  and  connectives.*  Sub- 
stantives are  all  the  words  which  express  the  names  of  objects,  or 
the  subjects  of  discourse  ;  attributives,  are  all  the  words  which  ex- 
press any  attribute,  property,  or  action  of  the  former ;  connectives, 
are  what  express  the  connexions,  relations,  and  dependencies, 
which  take  place  among  them.  The  common  grammatical  division 
of  speech  into  eight  parts  ;  nouns,  pronouns,  verbs,  participles,  ad- 
verbs, prepositions,  interjections,  and  conjunctions,  is  not  very  lo- 
gical, as  might  be  easily  shown ;  as  it  comprehends,  under  the  ge- 
neral term  of  nouns,  both  substantives  and  adjectives,  which  are 
parts  of  speech  generically  and  essentially  distinct ;  while  it  makes 
a  separate  part  of  speech  of  participles,  which  are  no  other  than 
verbal  adjectives.  However,  as  these  are  the  terms  to  which  our 
ears  have  been  most  familiarized,  and,  as  an  exact  logical  division 
is  of  no  great  consequence  to  our  present  purpose,  it  will  be  bettei 
to  make  use  of  these  known  terms  than  of  any  other. 

We  are  naturally  led  to  begin  with  the  consideration  of  substan 
tive  nouns,  which  are  the  foundation  of  all  grammar,  and  may  be 
considered  as  the  most  ancient  part  of  speech.     For,  assuredly,  as 
goon  as  men  had  got  beyond  simple  interjections,  or  exclamations  of 

*  Quintilian  informs  us,  that  this  was  the  most  ancient  division.  "  Turn  videbit  quot 
u  et  quae  sunt  partes  orationis.  Quanquam  de  numero  parum  convenit.  Veteres 
"  enim,  quorum  fuerant  Aristoteles  atque  Theodictes,  verba  modo,  et  nomina,  et  con- 
"  vinctiones  tradiderunt.  Videlicet,  quod  in  verbis  vim  sermonis,  in  nominibus  mate 
'•  riam,  (quia  alteram  est  quod  loquimur,  alteram  de  quo  loquiraur)  in  convinctionibus 
"  autem  complexum  eorum  esse  judicarant ;  quas  conjunctiones  a  plerisque  dici  scio  , 
"  sed  hffic  videtur  ex  s-uvrfW^*  magis  propria  translatio.  Paulatim  a  philosophicis  ae 
''  maxime  a  stoicis,  auctus  est  numeras  ;  ac  primiim  convinctionibus  articuli  adjecti ; 

♦post  prsposif  iones ;  nominibus,  appellatio,  deinde  pionomen  ;  deinde  mistum  verba 

•  pariicipium  ;  ipsis  verbis,  adverbia."     Lib.  i.  cap.  iv. 


80  STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE,      [lect.  viij. 

passion;  and  began  to  communicate  themselves  by  discourse,  they 
would  be  under  a  necessity  of  assigning  names  to  the  objects  they 
saw  around  them,  which,  in  grammatical  language,  is  called  the  in- 
vention of  substantive  nouns.*  And  here,  at  our  first  setting  out, 
somewhat  curious  occurs.  The  individual  objects  which  surround 
us,  are  infinite  in  number.  A  savage,  wherever  he  looked,  beheld 
forests  and  trees.  To  give  separate  names  to  every  one  of  those 
trees,  would  have  been  an  endless  and  impracticable  undertaking. 
His  first  object  was  to  give  a  name  to  that  particular  tree,  whose 
fruit  relieved  his  hunger,  or  whose  shade  protected  him  from  the 
sun.  But  observing,  that  though  other  trees  were  distinguished 
from  this  by  peculiar  qualities  of  size  or  appearance,  yet  that  they 
also  agreed  and  resembled  one  another,  in  certain  common  quali- 
ties, such  as  springing  from  a  root,  and  bearing  branches  and  leaves, 
he  formed  in  his  mind  some  general  idea  of  those  common  quali- 
ties, and  ranging  all  that  possessed  them  under  one  class  of  objects, 
he  called  that  whole  class,  a  tree.  Longer  experience  taught  him  to 
subdivide  this  genus  into  the  several  species  of  oak,  pine,  ash,  and 
the  rest,  according  as  his  observation  extended  to  the  several  quali- 
ties in  which  these  trees  agreed  or  differed. 

But,  still,  he  made  use  only  of  general  terms  in  speech.  For  the 
oak,  the  pine,  and  the  ash,  were  names  of  whole  classes  of  objects  ; 
each  of  which  included  an  immense  number  of  undistinguished  in- 
dividuals. Here  then  it  appears,  that  though  the  formation  of  ab- 
stract, or  general  conceptions,  is  supposed  to  be  a  difficult  opera- 
tion of  the  mind ;  such  conceptions  must  have  entered  into  the 
very  first  formation  of  language.  For,  if  we  except  only  the  proper 
names  of  persons,  such  as  Caesar,  John,  Peter,  all  the  other  sub- 
stantive nouns  which  we  employ  in  discourse,  are  the  names,  not 

*  I  do  not  mean  to  assert,  that  among-  all  nations,  the  first  invented  words  were  sim- 
ple and  regular  substantive  nouns.  Nothing  is  more  difficult  than  to  ascertain  the  pre- 
cise steps  in  which  men  proceeded  in  the  formation  of  language.  Names  for  objects 
must,  doubtless,  have  arisen  in  the  most  early  stages  of  speech.  But,  it  is  probable,  as 
the  learned  author  of  the  Treatise  on  the  Origin  and  Progress  of  Language,  has  shown, 
(vol.  i.  p.  371,  395,)  that,  among  several  savage  tribes,  someof  the  first  articulate  sounds 
that  were  formed,  denoted  a  whole  sentence,  rather  than  the  name  of  a  particular  ob- 
ject ;  conveying  some  information,  or  expressing  some  desires  or  fears  suited  to  the 
circumstances  in  which  that  tribe  was  placed,  or  relating  to  the  business  they  had  mos 
frequent  occasion  to  carry  on  ;  as,  the  lion  is  coming,  the  river  is  swelling,  &.c.  Many 
of  their  first  words,  it  is  likewise  probable,  were  not  simple  substantive  nouns,  but  sub- 
stantives, accompanied  with  some  of  those  attributes,  in  conjunction  with  which  they 
were  most  frequently  accustomed  to  behold  them  ;  as,  the  great  bear,  the  little  hut.  the 
wound  made  by  the  hatchet,  &.c.  Of  all  which,  the  author  pioduces  instances  from  se- 
veral of  the  American  languages ;  and  it  is,  undoubtedly,  suitable  to  the  natural  coui  se 
of  the  operations  of  the  human  mind,  thus  to  begin  with  particulars  the  most  obvious  to 
sense,  and  to  proceed,  from  these,  to  more  general  expressions.  He  likewise  observes, 
that  the  words  of  those  primitive  tongues  are  far  from  being,  as  we  might  suppose  them, 
rude  and  short,  and  crowded  with  consonants  ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  are,  for  the  most 
-art,  long  words,  and  full  of  vowels. 

This  is  the  consequence  of  their  being  formed  upon  the  natural  so'inds  which  the 
voice  utters  with  most  ease,  a  little  varied  and  distinguished  by  art'culation  :  and 
he  shows  this  to  hold,  in  fact,  among  most  of  the  barbarous  languages  which  aj  » 
known. 


lect.  viii.]       STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.  81 

of  individual  objects,  but  of  very  extensive  genera,  or  species  of 
objects;  as  man,  lion,  house,  river,  &c.  We  are  not,  however,  to 
imagine  that  this  invention  of  general,  or  abstract  terms,  requires 
tny  great  exertion  of  metaphysical  capacity :  for,  by  whatever  eteps 
the  mind  proceeds  in  it,  it  is  certain  that,  when  men  have  once  ob- 
served resemblances  among  objects,  they  are  naturally  inclined  to 
call  all  those  which  resemble  one  another,  by  one  common  name ; 
and,  of  course,  to  class  them  under  one  species.  We  may  daily 
observe  this  practised  by  children  in  their  first  attempts  towards  ac- 
quiring language. 

But  now,  after  language  had  proceeded  as  far  as  I  have  described, 
the  notification  which  it  made  of  objects  was  still  very  imperfect: 
for,  when  one  mentioned  to  another  in  discourse,  any  substantive 
noun,  such  as,  man,  lion,  or  tree,  how  was  it  to  be  known  which 
man,  which  lion,  or  which  tree,  he  meant,  among  the  many  com- 
prehended under  one  name  ?  Here  occurs  a  very  curious,  and  a 
very  useful  contrivance  for  specifying  the  individual  object  intended, 
by  means  of  that  part  of  speech  called  the  article. 

The  force  of  the  article  consists  in  pointing  or  singling  out  from 
the  common  mass,  the  individual  of  which  we  mean  to  speak.  In 
English  we  have  two  articles,  a  and  the  ;  a  is  more  general  and  un- 
limited ;  the  more  definite  and  special.  */2  is  much  the  same  with 
one,  and  marks  only  any  one  individual  of  a  species;  that  individual 
being  either  unknown  or  left  undetermined ;  as,  a  lion,  a  king.- — 
The,  which  possesses  more  properly  the  force  of  the  article,  ascer- 
tains some  known  or  determined  individual  of  the  species;  as,  the 
lion,  the  king. 

Articles  are  words  of  great  use  in  speech.  In  some  languages, 
however,  they  are  not  found.  The  Greeks  have  but  one  article, 
6  7]  to,  which  answers  to  our  definite,  or  proper  article,  the.  They 
have  no  word  which  answers  to  our  article  a,  but  they  supply  its 
place  by  the  absence  of  their  article :  Thus,  BatfiXsu?  signifies  a 
king ;  6  BatfiXsus,  the  king.  The  Latins  have  no  article.  In  the  room 
of  it,  they  employ  pronouns;  as,  hie,  ille,  iste,  for  pointing  out  the 
objects  which  they  want  to  distinguish.  "Noster  sermo,"  says 
Quintilian,  "  articulos  non  desiderat,'  ideoque  in  alias  partes  ora- 
"  tionis  sparguntur."  This,  however,  appears  to  me  a  defect  in  the 
Latin  tongue:  as  articles  contribute  much  to  the  clearness  and  pre- 
cision of  language. 

In  order  to  illustrate  this,  remark  what  difference  there  is  in  the 
meaning  of  the  following  expressions  in  English,  depending  wholly 
on  the  different  employment  of  the  articles;  "the  son  of  a  king. 
"  The  son  of  the  king.  A  son  of  the  king's."  Each  of  these  three 
phrases  has  an  entirely  different  meaning,  which  I  need  not  explain, 
because  any  one  who  understands  the  language,  conceives  it  clearly 
at  first  hearing,  through  the  different  application  of  the  articles  a 
and  the.  Whereas,  in  Latin,  "filius  regis,"  is  wholly  undetermined; 
and  to  explain,  in  which  of  these  three  senses  it  is  to  be  understood, 
for  it  may  bear  any  of  them,  a  circumlocution  of  several  words 

11 


82  STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE,      [lect.  viii 

must  be  used.  In  the  same  manner,  "  are  you  a  king  ?"  "  are  you 
"  the  king?"  are  questions  of  quite  separate  import;  which,  how- 
ever, are  confounded  together  in  the  Latin  phrase,  "esne  tu  rex?" 
"  thou  art  a  man,"  is  a  very  general  and  harmless  position ;  but, 
"  thou  art  the  man,"  is  an  assertion  capable,  we  know,  of  striking 
terror  and  remorse  into  the  heart.  These  observations  illustrate  the 
force  and  importance  of  articles:  and  at  the  same  time,  I  gladly 
lay  hold  of  any  opportunity  of  showing  the  advantages  of  our  own 
language. 

Besides  this  quality  of  being  particularized  by  the  article,  three 
affections  belong  to  substantive  nouns,  number,  gender,  and  case, 
which  require  our  consideration. 

Number  distinguishes  them  as  one,  or  many,  of  the  same  kind, 
called  the  singular  and  plural ;  a  distinction  found  in  all  languages, 
and  which  must,  indeed,  have  been  coeval  with  the  very  infancy 
of  language;  as  there  were  few  things  which  men  had  more  frequent 
occasion  to  express,  than  the  difference  between  one  and  many. 
For  the  greater  facility  of  expressing  it,  it  has,  in  all  languages, 
been  marked  by  some  variation  made  upon  the  substantive  noun ; 
as  we  see,  in  English,  our  plural  is  commonly  formed  by  the  addi- 
tion of  the  letter  S.  In  the  Hebrew,  Greek,  and  some  other  an- 
cient languages,  we  find  not  only  a  plural,  but  a  dual  number;  the 
rise  of  which  may  very  naturally  be  accounted  for,  from  separate 
terms  of  numbering  not  being  yet  invented,  and  one,  two,  and 
many,  being  all,  or  at  least,  the  chief  numeral  distinctions  which 
men,  at  first,  had  any  occasion  to  take  notice  of. 

Gender,  is  an  affection  of  substantive  nouns,  which  will  lead  us 
into  more  discussion  than  number.  Gender,  being  founded  on  the 
distinction  of  the  two  sexes,  it  is  plain,  that  in  a  proper  sense,  it 
can  only  find  place  in  the  names  of  living  creatures,  which  admit 
the  distinction  of  male  and  female;  and,  therefore,  can  be  ranged 
under  the  masculine  or  feminine  genders.  All  other  substantive 
nouns  ought  to  belong  to  what  grammarians  call,  the  neuter  gender, 
which  is  meant  to  imply  the  negation  of  either  sex.  But,  with 
respect  to  this  distribution,  somewhat  singular  hath  obtained  in  the 
structure  of  language.  For,  in  correspondence  to  that  distinction 
of  male  and  female  sex,  which  runs  through  all  the  classes  of  ani- 
mals, men  have,  in  most  languages,  ranked  a  great  number  of  in- 
animate objects  also,  under  the  like  distinctions  of  masculine  and 
feminine.  Thus  we  find  it,  both  in  the  Greek  and  Latin  tongues. 
Gladius,  a  sword,  for  instance,  is  masculine ;  sagitta,  an  arrow,  is 
feminine  ;  and  this  assignation  of  sex  to  inanimate  objects,  this 
distinction  of  them  into  masculine  and  feminine,  appears  often  to  be 
entirely  capricious;  derived  from  no  other  principle  than  the  casual 
structure  of  the  language,  which  refers  to  a  certain  gender,  words 
of  a  certain  termination.  In  the  Greek  and  Latin,  however,  all  ina- 
nimate objects  are  not  distributed  into  masculine  and  feminine ;  but, 
many  of  them  are  also  classed,  where  ail  of  them  ought  to  have 
been,  under  the  neuter  gender;  as,templum,a.  church;  sedile,  a  seat 

But  the  "renins  of  the  French  and  Italian  tongues  differs,  in  this 


lect.  vin.]      STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.  83 

respect,  from  the  Greek  and  Latin.  In  the  French  and  Italian, 
from  whatever  cause  it  has  happened,  so  it  is,  that  the  neuter  gen- 
der is  wholly  unknown,  and  that  all  their  names  of  inanimate  ob- 
jects are  put  upon  the  same  footing  with  living  creatures  ;  and  dis- 
tributed, without  exception,  into  masculine  and  feminine.  The 
French  have  two  articles,  the  masculine  le,  and  the  feminine  la  ; 
and  one  or  other  of  these  is  prefixed  to  all  substantive  nouns  in  the 
language,  to  denote  their  gender.  The  Italians  make  the  Same 
universal  use  of  their  articles  il  and  lo,  for  the  masculine ;  and  la 
for  the  feminine. 

In  the  English  language,  it  is  remarkable  that  there  obtains  a  pe- 
culiarity quite  opposite.  In  the  French  and  Italian  there  is  no 
neuter  gender.  In  the  English,  when  we  use  common  discourse, 
all  substantive  nouns,  that  are  not  names  of  living  creatures,  are 
neuter  without  exception.  He,  she,  and  it,  are  the  marks  of  the 
three  genders;  and  we  always  use  it,  in  speaking  of  any  object 
where  there  is  no  sex,  or  where  the  sex  is  not  known.  The  Eng- 
lish is,  perhaps,  the  only  language  in  the  known  world  (except  the 
Chinese,  which  is  said  to  agree  with  it  in  this  particular)  where  the 
distinction  of  gender  is  properly  and  philosophically  applied  in  the 
use  of  words,  and  confined  as  it  ought  to  be,  to  mark  the  real  dis- 
tinctions of  male  and  female. 

Hence  arises  a  very  great  and  signal  advantage  of  the  English 
tongue,  which  it  is  of  consequence  to  remark.*  Though  in  com- 
mon discourse,  as  I  have  already  observed,  we  employ  only  the 
proper  and  literal  distinction  of  sexes ;  yet  the  genius  of  the  lan- 
guage permits  us,  whenever  it  will  add  beauty  to  our  discourse,  to 
make  the  names  of  inanimate  objects  masculine  or  feminine  in  a 
metaphorical  sense  ;  and  when  we  do  so,  we  are  understood  to  quit 
the  literal  style,  and  to  use  one  of  the  figures  of  discourse. 

For  instance;  if  I  am  speaking  of  virtue,  in  the  course  of  ordi- 
nary conversation,  or  of  strict  reasoning,  I  refer  the  word  to  no  sex 
or  gender;  I  say,  "virtue  is  its  own  reward;"  or,  "it  is  the  law  of 
"  our  nature."  But  if  I  choose  to  rise  into  a  higher  tone ;  if  I  seek 
to  embellish  and  animate  my  discourse,  I  give  a  sex  to  virtue  ;  I 
say,  "she  descends  from  heaven;"  "she  alone  confers  true  honour 
"  upon  man  ;"  "  her  gifts  are  the  only  durable  rewards."  By  this 
means  we  have  it  in  our  power  to  vary  our  style  at  pleasure.  By 
making  a  very  slight  alteration,  we  can  personify  any  object  that 
we  choose  to  introduce  with  dignity ;  and  by  this  change  of  man- 
ner, we  give  warning  that  we  are  passing  from  the  strict  and  logical, 
to  the  ornamented  and  rhetorical  style. 

This  is  an  advantage  which  not  only  every  poet,  but  every  good 
writer  and  speaker  in  prose,  is,  on  many  occasions,  glad  to  lay  hold 
of,  and  improve;  and  it  is  an  advantage  peculiar  to  our  tongue;  no 
other  language  possesses  it.  For,  in  other  languages,  every  word 
has  one  fixed  gender,  masculine,  feminine,  or  neuter,  which  can, 

*  The  following  observations  on  *he  metaphorical  use  of  genders,  in  the  English  lan- 
guage, are  taken  from  Mr.  Harris  s  Hernces. 


84  STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.      [lect.  viii 

upon  no  occasion,  be  changed;  ageri),  for  instance,  in  Greek,  virtus 
in  Latin,  and  la  vertu  in  French,  are  uniformly  feminine.  She, 
must  always  be  the  pronoun  answering  to  the  word,  whether  you 
be  writing  in  poetry  or  in  prose,  whether  you  be  using  the  style  ol 
reasoning,  or  that  of  declamation  :  whereas,  in  English,  we  can  ei- 
tber  express  ourselves  with  the  philosophical  accuracy  of  giving  no 
gender  to  things  inanimate ;  or  by  giving  them  gender,  and  trans- 
forming them  into  persons,  we  adapt  them  to  the  style  of  poetry, 
and,  when  it  is  proper,  we  enliven  prose. 

It  deserves  to  be  farther  remarked  on  this  subject,  that,  when 
we  employ  that  liberty  which  our  language  allows,  of  ascribing  sex 
to  any  inanimate  object,  we  have  not,  however,  the  liberty  of  mak 
ing  it  of  what  gender  we  please,  masculine  or  feminine ;  but  are,  in 
general,  subjected  to  some  rule  of  gender  which  the  currency  of  Ian 
guage  has  fixed  to  that  object.     The  foundation  of  that  rule  is  ima- 
gined, by  Mr.  Harris,  in  his  "  Philosophical  Inquiry  into  the  Prin 
ciples  of  Grammar,"'  to  be  laid  in  a  certain  distant  resemblance,  or 
analogy,  to  the  natural  distinction  of  the  two  sexes.. 

Thus,  according  to  him,  we  commonly  give  the  masculine  gender 
to  those  substantive  nouns  used  figuratively,  which  are  conspicuous 
for  the  attributes  of  imparting,  or  communicating;  which  are  by 
nature  strong  and  efficacious,  either  to  good  or  evil ;  or  which  have 
a  claim  to  some  eminence,  whether  laudable  or  not.  Those  again, 
he  imagines,  to  be  generally  made  feminine,  which  are  conspicuous 
for  the  attributes  of  containing,  and  of  bringing  forth;  which  ha^a* 
more  of  the  passive  in  their  nature,  than  of  the  afctive ;  which  are 
peculiarly  beautiful,  or  amiable ;  or  which  have  respect  to  such  ex- 
cesses as  are  rather  feminine  than  masculine.  Upon  these  princi- 
ples he  takes  notice,  that  the  sun  is  always  put  in  the  masculine  gen- 
der with  us,  the  moon  in  the  feminine,  as  being  the  receptacle  of  the 
sun's  light.  The  earth  is,  universally,  feminine.  A  ship,  a  coun- 
try, a  city,  are  likewise  made  feminine,  as  receivers,  or  containers. 
God,  in  all  languages,  is  masculine.  Time,  we  make  masculine,  on 
account  of  its  mighty  efficacy ;  virtue,  feminine,  from  its  beauty  and 
its  being  the  object  of  love.  Fortune  is  always  feminine.  Mr.  Har- 
ris imagines,  that  the  reasons  which  determine  the  gender  of  such 
capital  words  as  these,  hold  in  most  other  languages,  as  well  as  the 
English.  This,  however,  appears  doubtful.  A  variety  of  circum- 
stances, which  seem  casual  to  us,  because  we  cannot  reduce  them  to 
principles,  must,  unquestionably,  have  influenced  the  original  for- 
mation of  languages:  and  in  no  article  whatever  does  language  ap- 
pear to  have  been  more  capricious,  and  to  have  proceeded  less  ac- 
cording to  fixed  rule,  than  in  the  imposition  of  gender  upon  things 
inanimate ;  especially  among  such  nations  as  have  applied  the  dis- 
tinction of  masculine  and  feminine  to  all  substantive  nouns. 

Having  discussed  gender,  I  proceed,  next,  to  another  remarkable 
peculiarity  of  substantive  nouns,  which,  in  the  style  of  grammar,  is 
called  their  declension  by  cases.  Let  us,  first,  consider  what  cases 
signify.  In  order  to  understand  this,  it  is  necessary  to  observe,  that, 
after  men  had  given  names  to  external  objects,  had  particularized 


ljsct.  vrn]     STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.  85 

them  by  means  of  the  article,  and  distinguished  them  by  number 
md  gender,  still  their  language  remained  extremely  imperfect,  till 
they  had  devised  some  method  of  expressing  the  relations  which 
those  objects  bore,  one  towards  another.  They  would  find  it  of  lit- 
tle use  to  have  a  name  for  man,  lion,  tree,  river,  without  being  able, 
at  the  same  time,  to  signify  how  these  stood  with  respect  to  each 
other;  whether,  as  approaching  to,  receding  from,  joined  with,  and 
the  like.  Indeed,  the  relations  which  objects  bear  to  one  another, 
are  immensely  numerous;  and  therefore,  to  devise  names  for  them 
all,  must  have  been  among  the  last  and  most  difficult  refinements  of 
language.  But,  in  its  most  early  periods,  it  was  absolutely  necessary 
to  express,  in  some  way  or  other,  such  relations  as  were  most  im- 
portant, and  as  occurred  most  frequently  in  common  speech.  Hence 
the  genitive,  dative,  and  ablative  cases  of  nouns,  which  express  the 
noun  itself,  together  with  those  relations  of,  to,  from,  with,  and  by  $ 
the  relations  which  we  have  the  most  frequent  occasion  to  mention. 
The  proper  idea  then  of  cases  in  declension,  is  no  other  than  an 
expression  of  the  state,  or  relation  which  one  object  bears  to 
another,  denoted  by  some  variation  made  upon  the  name  of  that 
object;  most  commonly  in  the  final  letters,  and  by  some  languages, 
in  the  initial. 

All  languages,  however,  do  not  agree  in  this  mode  of  expression. 
The  Greek,  Latin,  and  several  other  languages,  use  declension.  Tl> 
English,  French,  and  Italian,  do  not;  or,  at  most,  use  it  very  impei 
fectly.     In  place  of  the  variations  of  cases,  the  modern  tongues  ex- 
press the  rotations  of  objects,  by  means  of  the  words  called  preposi- 
tions, which  denote  those  relations,  prefixed  to  the  name  of  the  object. 
English  nouns  have  no  case  whatever,  except  a  sort  of  genitive, 
commonly  formed  by  the  addition  of  the  letter  s  to  the  noun;  as 
when  we  say  "Dryden's  Poems,"  meaning  the  Poems  of  Dryden. 
Our  personal  pronouns  have  also  a  case,  which  answers  to  the 
accusative  of  the  Latin,  /,  me;  he,  him ;  who,  ivhom.     There  is 
nothing,  then,  or  at  least  very  little,  in  the  grammar  of  our  Ian 
guage,  which  corresponds  to  declension  in  the  ancient  languages 

Two  questions,  respecting  this  subject,  may  be  put.  First,  Which 
of  these  methods  of  expressing  relations,  wdiether  that  by  declen- 
sion, or  that  by  prepositions,  was  the  most  ancient  usage  in  lan- 
guage? And  next,  Which  of  them  has  the  best  effect?  Both  methods, 
it  is  plain,  are  the  same  as  to  the  sense,  and  differ  only  in  form. 
For  the  significancy  of  the  Roman  language  would  not  have  been 
altered,  though  the  nouns,  like  ours,  had  been  without  cases,  provi- 
ded they  had  employed  prepositions:  and  though,  to  express  a  dis- 
ciple of  Plato,  they  had  said,  "  Discipulus  de  Plato,"  like  the  modern 
Italians,  in  place  of  "Discipulus  Platonis." 

Now  with  respect  to  the  antiq.iity  of  cases,  although  they  may, 
on  first  view,  seem  to  constitute  a  more  artificial  method  than  the 
other,  of  denoting  relations,  yet  there  are  strong  reasons  for  think- 
ing that  tliis  was  the  earliest  method  practised  by  men.  We  find,  in 
fact,  that  declensions  and  cases  are  used  in  most  of  what,  are  called 
t^e  mother  tongues,  or  original  languages,  as  well  as  in  the  Greek 
N 


88  STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.      fj*c*.  vn, 

and  Latin.  And  a  very  natural  and  satisfying  accoun*  "an  be  given 
why  this  usage  should  have  early  obtained.  Relations  are  Jie  most 
abstract  and  metaphysical  ideas  of  any  which  men  have  occasion  to 
form,  when  they  are  considered  by  themselves,  and  separated  from 
the  related  object.  It  would  puzzle  any  man,  as  has  been  well  ob- 
served by  an  author  on  this  subject,  to  give  a  distinct  account  of 
what  is  meant  by  such  a  word  as  of 'or  from,  when  itstands  by  itself, 
and  to  explain  all  that  may  be  included  under  it.  The  first  rude  in- 
venters  of  language,  therefore,  would  not  for  a  long  while  arrive  at 
such  general  terms.  In  place  of  considering  any  relation  in  the  ab- 
stract, and  devising  a  name  for  it,  they  would  much  more  easily 
conceive  it  in  conjunction  with  a  particular  object;  and  they  would 
express  their  conceptions  of  it,  by  varying  the  name  of  that  object 
through  all  the  different  cases;  hominis,  of  a  man;  homini,to  a  man; 
homine,  with  a  man,  &c. 

But  though  this  method  of  declension  was,  probably,  the  only 
method  which  men  employed,  at  first,  for  denoting  relations,  yet,  in 
progress  of  time,  many  other  relations  being  observed,  besides  those 
which  are  signified  by  the  cases  of  nouns,  and  men  also  becoming 
more  capable  of  general  and  metaphysical  ideas,  separate  names 
were  gradually  invented  for  all  the  relations  which  occurred,  form- 
ing that  part  of  speech  which  we  now  call  prepositions.  Preposi- 
tions, being  once  introduced,  they  were  found  to  be  capable  of  sup- 
plying the  place  of  cases,  by  being  prefixed  to  the  nominative  of 
the  noun.  Hence,  it  came  to  pass,  that  as  nations  were  intermixed 
by  migrations  and  conquests,  and  were  obliged  to  learn  and  adopt 
the  languages  of  one  another,  prepositions  supplanted  the  use  of 
cases  and  declensions.  When  the  Italian  tongue,  for  instance, 
sprung  out  of  the  Roman,  it  was  found  more  easy  and  simple  by  the 
Gothic  nations,  to  accommodate  a  few  prepositions  to  the  nomina- 
tive of  every  noun,  and  to  say,  di  Roma,  a  I  Roma  di  Carthago,  al 
Carthago,  than  to  remember  all  the  variety  of  terminations,  Romas, 
Romam,  Carthaginis,  Carthaginem,  which  the  use  of  declensions 
required  in  the  ancient  nouns.  By  this  progress  we  can  give  a.  na- 
tural account  how  nouns,  in  our  modern  tongues,  come  to  be  so  void 
of  declension :  a  progress  which  is  fully  illustrated  in  Dr.  Adam 
Smith's  ingenious  Dissertation  on  the  Formation  of  Languages. 

With  regard  to  the  other  question  on  this  subject,  Which  of  these 
two  methods  is  of  the  greatest  utility  and  beauty?  we  shall  find  ad- 
vantages and  disadvantages  to  be  balanced  on  both  side^.  There  is 
no  doubt  that,  'by  abolishing  cases,  we  have  rendered  the  structure 
of  modern  languages  more  simple.  We  have  disembarrassed  it  of 
all  the  intricacy  which  arose  from  the  different  forms  of  declension, 
of  which  the  Romans  had  no  fewer  than  five;  and  from  all  the  ir- 
regularities in  these  several  declensions.  We  have  thereby  rendered 
our  languages  more  easy  to  be  acquired,  and  less  subject  to  the 
perplexity  of  rules.  But,  though  the  simplicity  and  ease  of  lan- 
guage be  great  and  estimable  advantages,  yet  there  are  also  such 
disadvantages  attending  the  modern  method,  as  leave  the  balance 
on  the  whole,  doubtful,  or  rather  incline  it  to  the  side  of  antiquity 


lect.  viir.]       STRUCTURE  UF  LANGUAGE.  87 

For,  in  the  first  place,  by  our  constant  use  of  prepositions  for 
expressing  the  relations  of  things,  we  have  filled  language  with  a 
multitude  of  those  little  words,  which  are  eternally  occurring  in  eve 
ry  sentence,  and  may  be  thought  thereby  to  have  encumbered 
speech,  by  an  addition  of  terms;  and  by  rendering  it  more  prolix, 
to  have  enervated  its  force.  In  the  second  place,  we  have  certainly 
.endered  the  sound  of  language  less  agreeable  to  the  ear,  by  de- 
priving it  of  that  variety  and  sweetness,  which  arose  from  the  length 
of  words,  and  the  change  of  terminations  occasioned  by  the  cases 
in  the  Greek  and  Latin.  But,  in  the  third  place,  the  most  material 
disadvantage  is,  that,  by  this  abolition  of  cases,  and  by  a  similar  al- 
teration, of  which  I  am  to  speak  in  the  next  lecture,  in  the  conjuga- 
tion of  verbs,  we  have  deprived  ourselves  of  that  liberty  of  transpo- 
sition in  the  arrangement  of  words,  which  the  ancient  languages 
enjoyed. 

In  the  ancient  tongues,  as  I  formerly  observed,  the  different  ter- 
minations, produced  by  declension  and  conjugation,  pointed  out  the 
reference  of*  the  several  words  of  a  sentence  to  one  another,  without 
the  aid  of  juxtaposition  ;  suffered  them  to  be  placed,  without  ambi- 
guity, in  whatever  order  was  most  suited  to  give  force  to  the  mean- 
ing, or  harmony  to  the  sound.  But  now,  having  none  of  those 
marks  of  relation  incorporated  with  the  woi^s  themselves,  we  have 
no  other  way  left  us,  of  showing  what  words  in  a  sentence  are  most 
closely  connected  in  meaning,  than  that  of  placing,  them  close  by 
one  another  in  the  period.  The  meaning  of  the  sentence  is  brought 
out  in  separate  members  and  portions;  it  is  broken  down  and  di- 
vided :  whereas  the  structure  of  the  Greek  and  Roman  sentences, 
by  the  government  of  their  nouns  and  verbs,  presented  the  meaning 
so  interwoven  and  compounded  in  all  its  parts,  as  to  make  us  per- 
ceive it  in  one  united  view.  The  closing  words  of  the  period  as- 
certained the  relation  of  each  member  to  another;  and  all  that  ought 
to  be  connected  in  one  idea,  appeared  connected  in  the  expression. 
Hence,  more  brevity,  more  vivacity,  more  force.  That  luggage  of 
particles,  (as  an  ingenious  author  happily  expresses  it),  which  we  are 
obliged  always  to  carry  along  with  us,  both  clogs  style,  and  enfeebles 
sentiment.* 

*  "  The  various  terminations  of  the  same  word,  whether  verb  or  noun,  are  always 
conceived  to  be  more  intimately  connected  with  the  term  which  they  serve  to  lengthen, 
.han  the  additional,  detached,  and  in  themselves  insignificant  particles,  which  we  are 
obliged  to  employ  as  connectives  to  our  significant  words.  Our  method  gives  almost 
the  fame  exposure  to  the  one  as  to  the  other,  making  the  significant  parts,  and  the  in 
significant,  equally  conspicuous  ;  theirs  much  oftener  sinks,  as  it  were,  the  former  into 
the  latter,  at  once  preserving  their  use  and  hiding  their  weakness.  Our  modern  lan- 
guages may,  in  this  respect,  be  compared  to  the  art  of  the  carpenter  in  its  rudest  state  ; 
when  the  union  of  the  materials  employed  by  the  artisan,  could  be  effected  only  by  the 
help  of  those  external  and  coarse  implements,  pins,  nails,  and  cramps.  The  ancient 
languages  resemble  the  same  art  in  its  most  improved  state,  after  the  invention  of  dove- 
tail joints,  grooves,  and  mortices  ;  when  thus  all  the  principal  junctions  are  effected, 
by  forming  properly  the  extremities  or  terminations  of  the  pieces  to  be  joined.  For, 
by  means  of  these,  the  union  of  the  parts  is  rendered  closer,  while  that  by  which  that 
union  is  produced,  is  scarcely  perceivable."  The  Philosophy  of  Rhetoric,  by  Dr.  Camp- 
bell, vol.  ii.  p.  412. 


88  STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE,       [uct.  ,m. 

Pronouns  are  the  class  of  words  most  nearly  related  to  substantive 
nouns;  being,  as  the  name  imports,  representatives,  or  substitutes, 
of  nouns.  I,  thou,  lie,  she,  and  it,  are  no  other  than  an  abridged 
way  of  naming  the  persons,  or  objects,  with  which  we  have  immedi- 
ate intercourse,  or  to  which  we  are  obliged  frequently  to  refer  in 
discourse.  Accordingly,  they  are  subject  to  the  same  modifications 
with  substantive  nouns,  of  number,  gender,  and  case.  Only,  with 
respect  to  gender,  we  may  observe,  that  the  pronouns  of  the  first  and 
second  person,  as  they  are  called,  /and  thou,  do  not  appear  to  have 
had  the  distinctions  of  gender  given  them  in  any  language ;  for  this 
nlain  reason,  that,  as  they  always  refer  to  persons  who  are  present  to 
each  other  when  they  speak,  their  sex  must  appear,  and  therefore 
needs  not  be  marked  by  a  masculine  or  feminine  pronoun.  But,  as  the 
third  person  may  be  absent,  or  unknown,  the  distinction  of  gender 
there  becomes  necessary;  and  accordingly,  in  English,  it  hath  all  the 
three  genders  belonging  to  it;  he,  she,  it.  As  to  cases,  even  those 
languages  which  have  dropped  them  in  substantive  nouns,  sometimes 
retain  more  of  them  in  pronouns,  for  the  sake  of  the  greater  readi- 
ness in  expressing  relations;  as  pronouns  are  words  of  such  frequent 
occurrence  in  discourse.  1  n  English,  most  of  our  grammarians  hold 
the  personal  pronouns  to  have  two  cases,  besides  the  nominative;  a 
genitive,  and  accusative;  /,  mine,  me;  thou,  thine,  thee;  he,  his, 
him;  tvho,  whose,  whom. 

In  the  first  stage  of  speech,  it  is  probable  that  the  places  of  those 
pronouns  were  supplied  by  pointing  to  the  object  when  present,  and 
naming  it,  when  absent.  For  one  can  hardly  think  that  pronouns 
were  of  early  invention;  as  they  are  words  of  such  a  particular  and 
artificial  nature.  /,  thou,  he,  it,  it  is  to  be  observed,  are  not  names 
peculiar  to  any  single  object,  but  so  very  general,  that  they  may  be 
applied  to  all  persons,  or  objects,  whatever,  in  certain  circumstan- 
ces. //,  is  the  most  general  term  that  can  possibly  be  conceived,  as 
it  may  stand  for  any  one  thing  in  ti^e  universe,  of  which  we  speak. 
At  the  same  time,  these  pronouns  have  this  quality,  that  in  the  cir- 
cumstances in  which  they  are  applied,  they  never  denote  more  than 
one  precise  individual;  which  they  ascertain  and  specify,  much  in 
the  same  manner  as  is  done  by  the  article.  So  that  pronouns  are,  at 
once,  the  most  general,  and  the  most  particular  words  in  language. 
They  are  commonly  the  most  irregular  and  troublesome  words  to 
the  learner,  in  the  grammar  of  all  tongues ;  as  being  the  words  most 
in  common  use,  and  subjected  thereby  to  the  greatest  varieties. 

Adjectives,  or  terms  of  quality,  such  as,  great,  little,  black,  white, 
yours,  ours,  are  the  plainest  and  simplest  of  all  that  class  of  words 
which  are  termed  attributive.  They  are  found  in  all  languages; 
and,  in  all  languages,must  have  been  very  early  invented ;  as  objects 
could  not  be  distinguished  from  one  another,  nor  any  intercourse  be 
carried  on  concerning  them,  till  once  names  were  given  to  their 
different  qualities. 

I  have  nothing  to  observe  in  relation  to  them,  except  that  singu- 
larity which  attends  them  in  the  Greek  and  Latin,  of  having  the 
fame  form  given  them  with  substantive  nouns;  being  declined, like 


lect  vm.J   STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE. 


80 


them,  by  cases,  and  subjected  to  the  like  distinctions  of  number  and 
gender.  Hence  it  has  happened,  that  grammarians  have  made  them 
jo  belong  to  the  same  part  of  speech,  and  divided  the  noun  into  sub- 
stantive and  adjective  ;  an  arrangement  founded  more  on  attention 
to  the  external  form  of  words,  than  to  their  nature  and  force.  For 
adjectives  or  terms  of  quality,  have  not,  by  their  nature,  the  least 
resemblance  to  substantive  nouns,  as  they  never  express  any  thing 
which  can  possibly  subsist  by  itself ;  which  is  the  very  essence  of 
the  substantive  noun.  They  are,  indeed,  more  akin  to  verbs,  which, 
like  them,  express  the  attribute  of  some  substance. 

It  may,  at  first  view,  appear  somewhat  odd  and  fantastic,  that  ad- 
jectives should,  in  the  ancient  languages,  have  assumed  so  much  of 
the  form  of  substantives ;  since  neither  number,  nor  gender,  nor 
cases,  nor  relations,  have  any  thing  to  do,  in  a  proper  sense,  with 
mere  qualities,  such  as  good  or  great,  soft  or  hard.  And  yet  bonus, 
and  magnus,  and  tener,  have  their  singular  and  plural,  their  mascu- 
line and  feminine,  their  genitives  and  datives,  like  any  of  the  names 
of  substances,  or  persons.  But  this  can  be  accounted  for  from  the 
genius  of  those  tongues.  They  avoided,  as  much  as  possible,  consi- 
dering qualities  separately,  or  in  the  abstract.  They  made  them  a 
part,  or  appendage,  of  the  substance  which  they  served  to  distin- 
guish :  they  made  the  adjective  depend  on  its  substantive,  and  re- 
semble it  in  termination,  in  number,  and  gender,  in  order  that  the 
two  might  coalesce  the  more  intimately,  and  be  joined  in  the  form 
of  expression,  as  they  were  in  the  nature  of  things.  The  liberty  of 
transposition,  too,  which  those  languages  indulged,  required  such  a 
method  as  this  to  be  followed.  For  allowing  the  related  words  of  a 
sentence  to  be  placed  at  a  distance  from  each  other,  it  required  the. 
relation  of  adjectives  to  their  proper  substantives  to  be  pointed  out, 
by  such  similar  circumstances  of  form  and  termination,  as,  accord- 
ing to  the  grammatical  style,  should  show  their  concordance.  When 
I  say  in  English,  the  "  Beautiful  wife  of  a  brave  man,"  the  juxta- 
position of  the  words  prevents  all  ambiguity.  But  when  I  say  in 
Latin,  "  Formosa  fortis  viri  uxor ;"  it  is  only  the  agreement,  in 
gender,  number,  and  case,  of  the  adjective  "formosa,"  which  is  the 
first  word  of  the  sentence,  with  the  substantive  "  uxor,"  which  is  the 
last  word  that  declares  the  meaning. 


QUESTIONS. 


After  having  given  an  account  of 
the  rise  and  progress  of  language,  to 
xvhat  does  our  author  proceed  ?  Of  the 
structure  of  language,  and  of  its  com- 
parison with  other  sciences,  what  is 
remarked  1  Why  is  it  apt  to  be  slighted 
by  superficial  thinkers  ?  To  the  igno- 
rance of  what  was  then  inculcated, 
what  is  to  be  attributed'?  On  what 
iiave  kw  authors  written  with  philo- 
sophical accuracy ;  and  what  is  still 


more  to  be  regretted?  Hdw  does  the 
attention  of  the  French  and  English 
to  this  subject  compare?  What  has 
lately  been  attempted;  and  how  have 
they  succeeded  ?  What  is  not  our  au- 
thor's purpose  ;  and  why  not  ?  Of  what 
does  he  propose  to  give  a  general  view ; 
and  how?  What  is  the  first  thing  to 
be  considered?  Of  the  essential  parts 
of  speech  in  all  languages,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  How  is  this  remark  illustrated: 


S9  a 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  nn 


and  hence,  what  follows  ?  What  is  the 
most  simple  and  comprehensive  division 
of  the  parts  of  speech ?  How  are  these 
respectively  classed?  Of  the  common 
grammatical  division  of  speech  into 
eight  parts,  what  is  observed;  and 
why  ?  Why,  then,  will  it  be  better  to 
make  use  of  these  known  terms,  than 
of  any  others?  With  what  are  we  na- 
turally led  to  begin ;  and  why?  What 
here  occurs;  and  why?  A  savage,  be- 
holding trees  in'  every  direction,  found 
what  to  be  an  impracticable  underta- 
king ?  What  was  his  first  object  ?  By 
what  was  he  led  to  form,  in  his  mind, 
some  general  ideas  of  the  common 
qualities  of  all  trees?  What  did  longer 
experience  teach  him  ?  To  what  disad- 
vantage was  he  still  subject ;  and  why  ? 
Hence,  then,  what  appears  evident? 
How  is  this  illustrated  ?  What,  howe- 
ver, are  we  not  to  imagine  ;  and  why 
not?  Where  is  this  daily  practised  ? 
Why  was  the  notification  which  lan- 
guage made  of  objects,  still  very  im- 
perfect ?  Here,  what  useful  and  very 
curious  contrivance  occurs?  In  what 
does  the  force  of  the  article  consist?  In 
English,  how  many  articles  have  we? 
Define  them.  A,  is  much  the  same 
with  what,  and  what  does  it  mark? 
Of  the  article  the,  what  is  observed  ? 
What  article,  only,  have  the  Greeks, 
and  to  what  does  it  answer?  How  do 
they  supply  the  place  of  our  article  a  ? 
How  is  this  illustrated  ?  As  the  Latins 
had  no  article,  how  did  they  supply  its 
place  ?  Why  does  this  appear  to  be  a 
defect  in  the  Latin  tongue  ?  How  is 
this  illustrated?  Of  each  of  these 
phrases,  what  is  remarked  ?  Of  "filius 
regis,"  what  is  observed ;  and  to  ex- 
plain in  which  of  these  senses  it  is  to  be 
understood,  what  is  necessary  ?  To  il- 
lustrate the  force  and  importance  of  the 
article,  what  further  examples  are 
given  ?  Of  showing;  what,  does  our  au- 
thor gladly  lay  hold  of  any  opportuni- 
ty? What  other  affections  belong  to 
substantive  nouns  ?  How  does  number 
distinguish  them  ?  Of  this  distinction 
what  is  said ;  and  why  must  it  have 
oeen  coeval  with  the  very  infancy  of 
language  ?  For  the  greater  facility  of 
expressing  it,  by  what  has  it,  in  all  lan- 
guages been  marked?  In  what  lan- 
guages do  we  find  a  dual  number ;  and 
how  may  its  origin  be  accounted  for? 
Of  gender,  what  is  remarked  ?  Why 
is  it,  in  ita  proper  sense,  confined  to  the 


names  of  living  creatures ;  and  there 
fore,  what  follows?  To  what  ough* 
all  other  substantive  nouns  belong; 
and  what  is  it  meant  to  imply  ?  With 
respect  to  this  distribution,  what  has 
obtained?  How  is  this  remark  illustra- 
ted? What  examples  are  given?  01 
this  assignation  of  sex  to  inanimate 
objects,  what  is  remarked?  What  is 
observed  of  the  gender  of  inanimate 
objects  in  the  Greek  and  Latin  lan- 
guages? How  do  the  French  and 
Italian  tongues  differ  from  them  in  this 
respect?  In  the  latter,  how  is  the  gen- 
der of  nouns  designated  ?  In  the  Eng- 
lish language,  what  peculiarity  ob- 
tains? What  are  the  marks  of  the 
three  genders ;  and  when  is  it  used  ? 
In  this  respect,  what  advantage  has 
the  English  language  over  all  others, 
the  Chinese  excepted  ?  What  does  the 
genius  of  it  permit?  What  example 
of  illustration  is  given?  By  this  means, 
what  have  we  it  in  our  power  to  do; 
and  how?  Of  this  advantage,  what  is 
further  observed  ;  and  why  ?  What  in- 
stances are  mentioned  ?  In  English, 
how  can  we  avoid  this  difficulty  ? 
What  deserves  further  to  be  remarked  ? 
Where  is  the  foundation  of  this  rule 
imagined  to  be  laid?  Thus,  according 
to  him,  to  what  substantive  nouns,  used 
figuratively,  do  we  give  the  masculine 
nender;  and  to  what  the  feminine? 
Upon  these  principles,  of  what  does  he 
take  notice  ?  What  does  Mr.  Harris 
further  imagine  ?  Why  does  this  ap- 
pear doubtful  ? 

Having  discussed  gender,  to  what 
does  our  author  next  proceed  ?  To  un- 
derstand what  case  signifies,  what  is 
it  necessary  to  observe?  What  would 
they  find  of  little  use?  Of  the  relation 
which  objects  bear  to  one  another,  what 
is  observed  ;  and  what  follows  ?  But, 
in  its  earliest  periods,  what  was  neces- 
sary; and  hence,  what  cases  were 
found  ?  What,  then,  is  the  proper  idea 
of  cases  in  declension  ?  What  evidence 
have  we  that  all  languages  do  not  agree 
in  this  mode  of  expression?  How  do 
modern  tongues  express  the  relations 
of  objects?  What  case  only,  have  Eng- 
lish nouns ;  and  how  is  it  formed  1 
What,  in  our  language  answers  to  the 
accusative  casein  Latin?  What  is  there 
not,  then,  in  our  language  ?  What  two 
questions,  therefore,  concerning  this 
subject,  may  be  put?  Of  boil  methods, 
what  is  remarked  •  and  why  ?  Which 


LECT.  VIII.] 


QUESTIONS. 


S9  b 


was  the  earliest  method  practised  by 
men?  Where  do  we,  in  fact,  find  that 
declensions  and  cases  are  used  ?  What 
natural  account  can  be  given,  why  this 
usage  should  have  early  obtained? 
What  has  been  well  observed,  by  our 
author,  oil  thi-3  subject  ?  What  infe- 
rence, therefore,  follows?  How  would 
they  most  naturally  conceive  the  rela- 
tions of  a  thing;  and  how  would  they 
express  their  conceptions  of  it  ?  How 
were  separate  names  invented,  to  ex- 
press the  relations  which  occurred  ;  and 
what  are  they  called  ?  Prepositions  be- 
ing once  introduced,  how  were  they 
found  to  be  capable  of  supplying  the 
place  of  cases;  and  hence,  what  came 
to  pass?  How  is  this  illustrated?  By 
this  progress,  of  what  can  we  give  a 
natural  account  ?  With  regard  to  the 
other  question  on  this  subject,  what 
shall  we  find?  What  efiect  has  been 
produced,  by  the  abolition  of  cases  ? 
Of  what  have  we  disembarrassed  it ; 
and  how  have  we  thereby  rendered  it  ? 
Notwithstanding!:  these  advantages,  yet 
what  disadvantages,  in  the  first  place, 
leave  the  balance  inclining  to  the  side 
of  antiquity?  What  in  the  second 
place  ?  But,  in  the  third  place,  what  is 
the  most  material  disadvantage?  In 
the  ancient  tongues,  what  did  the  d li- 
ferent terminations  pcint  out ;  and  how 
did  it  suffer  them  to  be  placed  ?  In  ex- 
pressing relations,  what  method  only 
have  we  now  left  ?  How  s  the  meaning 
of  a  sentence  brought  "*ut  ?  How  did 
the  structure  of  the  Greek  and  Roman 
sentences  express  their  meaning  ?  How 
was  the  relation  of  each  member  as- 
certained ;  and  hence,  what  was  pro- 
duced ?  What  are  pronouns  ?  Of  them, 
what  is  remarked  ;  and  accordingly,  to 
what  are  they  subject  ?  Why  have  not 
/  and  thou  had  the  distinctions  of  gen- 
der given  to  them  in  any  language? 
Why  is  the  distinction  of  gender  neces- 
sary in  the  third  person?  Of  the  cases  of  I 


pronouns,  what  is  remarked?  In  English, 
what  cases  have  pronouns?  How  is  it 
probable  the  places  of  pronouns  were 
supplied,  in  the  first  stage  of  speech ;  and 
why?  OfI,thou, he,  and  iY,  what  istobe 
observed?  Oi' it,  what  is  remarked;  and 
why  ?  What  other  quality  have  these 
pronouns ;  so  that  what  follows  ?  Why 
are  they  troublesome  to  the  learner  ?  Ot 
adjectives,  what  is  remarked?  Where 
are  they  found ;  and  why  must  they 
have  been  early  invented?  What,  only, 
is  to  be  observed,  in  relation  to  them  ? 
Hence,  what  has  happened;  and  on 
what  is  this  arrangement  founded? 
Why  have  not  adjectives  the  least  re- 
semblance to  substantive  nouns?  To 
what  are  they  more  akin  ?  What  may, 
at  first  view,  appear  somewhat  odd  and 
fantastic;  and  why?  How  can  this  be 
accounted  for  ?  What  did  they  avoid  ; 
and  what  did  they  make  them  ?  On 
what  did  they  make  the  adjective  de- 
pend; and  why?  What  did  the  liberty 
of  transposition  require,  and  for  what 
reason  ?  How  is  this  illustrated  ? 


ANALYSIS. 

The  parts  of  Speech. 

1.  Articles. 

a.  The  indefinite  article. 
B.  The  definite  article. 
c.  The  importance  of  the  article 
illustrated. 

2.  Substantive  nouns. 

a.  Number. 

b.  Gender. 

a.  Its  philosophical  applica- 
tion. 
6.  Mr.  Harris's  Theory. 

c.  Case. 

a.  Its  signification. 

b.  Its  variations. 

(a.)  By  declension. 
(b.)  By  prepositions. 

3.  Pronouns. 

a.  Their  origin. 

4.  Adjectives. 


LECTURE  IX. 


STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.— ENGLISH  TONGUE. 

Of  the  whole  class  of  words  that  are  called  attributive,  indeed, 
of  all  the  parts  of  speech,  the  most  complex,  by  far,  is  the  verb.  It 
Is  chiefly  in  this  part  of  speech,  that  the  subtile  and  profound  meta- 
physic  of  language  appears  ;  and,  therefore,  in  examining  the  na- 
ture and  different  variations  of  the  verb,  there  might  be  room  for 


•m  STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.        [lect. ix 

ample  discussion.  But  as  I  am  sensible,  that  such  grammatical  dis 
eussions,  when  they  are  pursued  far,  become  intricate  and  obscure, 
[  shall  avoid  dwelling  any  longer  on  this  subject  than  seems  abso- 
lutely necessary. 

The  verb  is  so  far  of  the  same  nature  with  the  adjective,  that  it 
expresses,  like  it,  an  attribute,  or  property,  of  some  person  or  thing. 
But.  it  does  more  than  this.  For,  in  all  verbs,  in  every  language, 
there  are  no  less  than  three  things  implied  at  once;  the  attribute 
of  some  substantive,  an  affirmation  concerning  that  attribute,  and 
time.  Thus,  when  I  say, '  the  sun  shineth ;'  shining  is  the  attribute 
ascribed  to  the  sun;  the  present  time  is  marked;  and  an  affirmation 
i ;  included,  that  this  property  of  shining  belongs,  at  that  time,  to 
the  sun.  The  participle  '  shining,'  is  merely  an  adjective,  which 
denotes  an  attribute  or  property,  and  also  expresses  time;  but  car- 
ries no  affirmation.  The  infinitive  mood, '  to  shine/  may  be  called 
the  name  of  the  verb;  it  carries  neither  time  nor  affirmation;  but 
simply  expresses  that  attribute,  action,  or  state  of  things,  which  is  to 
be  the  subject  of  the  other  moods  and  tenses.  Hence  the  infinitive 
often  carries  the  resemblance  of  a  substantive  noun;  and  both  in 
English  and  Latin,  is  sometimes  constructed  as  such.  As, 'scire 
tuum  nihil  est.'  'Dulce  et  decorum  est  pro  patria  mori.'  And,  in 
English,  in  the  same  manner:  'To  write  well  is  difficult;  to  speak 
eloquently  is  still  more  difficult'  But  as,  through  all  the  other  ten- 
ses and  moods,  the  affirmation  runs,  and  is  essential  to  them;  'the 
sun  shineth,  was  shining,  shone,  will  shine,  would  have  shone,'  &c. 
the  affirmation  seems  to  be  that  which  chiefly  distinguishes  the  verb 
from  the  other  parts  of  speech,  and  gives  it  its  most  conspicuous 
">ower.  Hence  there  can  be  no  sentence,  or  complete  proposition, 
vithout  a  verb  either  expressed  or  implied.  For,  whenever  we 
speak,  we  always  mean  to  assert,  that  something  is,  or  is  not ;  and  the 
word  which  carries  this  assertion,  or  affirmation,  is  a  verb.  From 
this  sort  of  eminence  belonging  to  it,  this  part  of  speech  hath  re- 
ceived its  name,  verb,  from  the  Latin  verbum,  or  the  word,  by  way  of 
distinction. 

Verbs,  therefore,  from  their  importance  and  necessity  in  speech 
must  have  been  coeval  with  men's  first  attempts  towards  the  forma 
tion  of  language ;  though,  indeed,  it  must  have  been  the  work  ol 
long  time,  to  rear  Item  up  to  that  accurate  and  complex  structure 
which  they  now  possess.     It  seems  very  probable,  as  Dr.  Smith  has 
suggested,  that  the  radical  verb,  or  the  first  form  of  it,  in  most  Ian 
guages,  would  be,  what  we  now  call  the  impersonal  verb.    '  It  rains, 
it  thunders;  it  is  light;  it  is  agreeable;'  and  the  like;  as  this  is  the 
very  simplest  form  of  the  verb,  and  merely  affirms  the  existence  of 
an  event,  or  of  a  state  of  things.     By  degrees,  after  pronouns  were 
invented,  such  verbs  became  personal,  and  were  branched  out  into 
all  the  variety  of  tenses  and  moods. 

The  tenses  of  the  verb  are  contrived  to  imply  the  several  distine* 
tions  of  time.  Of  these  I  must  take  some  notice,  in  order  to  show 
the  admirable  accuracy  with  which  language  is  constructed.  We 
think  commonly  of  no  more  than  the  three  great  divisions  of  time, 


lect    ex.]        STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.  Si 

Into  the  past,  the  present,  and  the  future;  and  we  might  imagine, 
that  if  verbs  had  been  so  contrived,  as  simply  to  express  these,  no 
more  was  needful.  But  language  proceeds  with  much  greater  subtilty. 
It  splits  time  into  its  several  moments.  It  considers  time  as  nevei 
standing  still,  but  always  flowing  ;  things  past,  as  more  or  less  per- 
fectly completed;  and  things  future,  as  more  or  less  remote,  by  differ 
ent  gradations.    Hence  the  great  variety  of  tenses  in  most  tongues. 

The  present  may,  indeed,  be  always  considered  as  one  indivisible 
point,  susceptible  of  no  variety.  "  I  write,  or,  I  am  writing;  scribo." 
But  it  is  not  so  with  the  past.  There  is  no  language  so  poor,  but  it 
hath  two  or  three  tenses  to  express  the  varieties  of  it.  Ours  hath 
no  fewer  than  four.  1.  A  past  action  may  be  considered  as  left  un- 
finished ;  which  makes  the  imperfect  tense,  ;*I  was  writing,  scribe- 
bam."  2.  As  just  now  finished.  This  makes  the  proper  perfect 
tense,  which,  in  English,  is  always  expressed  by  the  help  of  the  aux- 
iliary verb,  "  I  have  written."  3.  It  may  be  considered  as  finished 
some  time  ago  ;  the  particular  time  left  indefinite.  "  I  wrote,  scrip- 
si-"  which  may  either  signify,  "I  wrote  yesterday,  or,  I  wrote  a 
twelvemonth  ago."  This  is  what  grammarians  call  an  aorist,  or  in- 
definite past.  4.  It  may  be  considered  as  finished  before  something 
else,  which  is  also  past.  This  is  the  plusquamperfect.  "  I  had  writ- 
ten ;  scripseram.     I  had  written  before  I  received  his  letter." 

Here  we  observe  with  some  pleasure,  that  we  have  an  advantage 
pver  the  Latins,  who  have  only  three  varieties  upon  the  past  time. 
They  have  no  proper  perfect  tense,  or  one  which  distinguishes  an 
action  just  now  finished,  from  an  action  that  was  finished  some  time 
ago.  In  both  these  cases  they  must  say,  "scripsi."  Though  there 
be  a  manifest  difference  in  the  tenses,  which  our  language  express- 
es, by  this  variation,  "  I  have  written,"  meaning,  I  have  just  now 
finished  writing;  and,  "  I  wrote,"  meaning  at  some  former  time, 
since  which,  other  things  have  intervened.  This  difference  the 
Romans  have  no  tense  to  express ;  and,  therefore,  can  only  do  it  by 
a  circumlocution. 

The  chief  varieties  in  the  future  time  are  two  ;  a  simple  or  inde- 
finite future;  'I  shall  write;  scribam ;'  and  a  future,  relating  to 
something  else,  which  is  also  future.  'I  shall  have  written  ;  scrip- 
sero.'     I  shall  have  written  before  he  arrives  * 

Besides  tenses,  or  the  power  of  expressing  times,  verbs  admit  the 
distinction  of  voices,  as  they  are  called,  the  active  and  the  passive  ; 
according  as  the  affirmation  respects  something  that  is  done,  or  some- 
thing that  is  suffered;  'I  love,  or  I  am  loved.'  They  admit,  also, 
the  distinction  of  moods,  which  are  designed  to  express  the  affirma- 
tion, whether  active  or  passive,  under  different  forms.  The  indica- 
tive mood,  for  instance,  simply  declares  a  proposition,  '  I  write  ;  I 
have  written ;'  the  imperative  requires,  commands,  threatens, '  write 
thou;  let  him  write.'     The  subjunctive  expresses  the  propositior. 

*  On  the  tenses  of  the  verbs,  Mr.  Harris's  Hermes  may  be  consulted,  by  such  as  <le 
sire  to  see  them  scrutinized  with  metaphj  sical  accuracy ;  and  also  the  Treatise  on  the 
Origin  and  Progress  of  Language,  vol.  ii.  p.  125. 

u 


92  STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.         [leg?  ix. 

under  the  form  of  a  condition,  or  in  subordination  to  some  other 
thing,  to  which  a  reference  is  made,  *  I  might  write,  1  could  write, 
I  should  write,  if  tfce  case  were  so  and  so.'  This  manner  of  ex- 
pressing an  affirmation,  under  so  many  different  forms,  together 
also  with  the  distinction  of  the  three  persons,  /,  thou,  and  he,  con- 
stitutes what  is  called  the  conjugation  of  verbs,  which  makes  so 
great  a  part  of  the  grammar  of  all  languages. 

It  now  clearly  appears,  as  I  before  observed,  that,  of  all  the  parts 
of  speech,  verbs  are,  by  far,  the  most  artificial  and  complex.  Con- 
sider only,  how  many  things  are  denoted  by  this  single  Latin  word 
*  amavissem,  I  would  have  loved.'  First,  The  person  who  speaks, '  I.' 
Secondly,  An  attribute  or  action  of  that  person,  'loving.'  Third- 
ly, An  affirmation  concerning  that  action.  Fourtbly,  The  past 
time  denoted  in  that  affirmation, '  have  loved  :'  and,  Fifthly,  A  con- 
dition, on  which  the  action  is  suspended,  '  would  have  loved.'  It 
appears  curious  and  remarkable,  that  words  of  this  complex  import, 
and  with  more  or  less  of  this  artificial  structure,  are  to  be  found, 
as  far  as  we  know,  in  all  languages  of  the  world. 

Indeed, the  form  of  conjugation,  or  the  manner  of  expressing  all 
these  varieties  in  the  verb,  differs  greatly  in  different  tongues.  Con- 
jugation is  esteemed  most  perfect  in  those  languages  which, by  vary- 
ing either  the  termination  or  the  initial  syllable  of  the  verb,express 
the  greatest  number  of  important  circumstances,  without  the  help  of 
auxiliary  words.  In  the  oriental  tongues,  the  verbs  are  said  to  have 
few  tenses,  or  expressions  of  time ;  but  then  their  modes  are  so  con- 
trived as  to  express  a  great  variety  of  circumstances  and  relations. 
In  the  Hebrew,  for  instance,  they  say,  in  one  word,  without  the 
help  of  any  auxiliary,  not  only  i  I  have  taught,'  but,  '  I  have  taught 
exactly,  or  often  ;  I  have  been  commanded  to  teach  ;  I  have  taught 
mj^self.'  The  Greek,  which  is  the  most  perfect  of  all  the  known 
tongues,  is  very  regular  and  complete  in  all  the  tenses  and  moods. 
The  Latin  is  formed  on  the  same  model,  but  more  imperfect ;  es- 
pecially in  the  passive  voice,  which  forms  most  of  the  tenses  by  the 
nelp  of  the  auxiliary  '  sum.' 

In  all  the  modern  European  tongues,  conjugation  is  very  defec- 
tive. They  admit  few  varieties  in  the  termination  of  the  verb  it- 
self; but  have  almost  constant  recourse  to  their  auxiliary  verbs, 
throughout  all  the  moods  and  tenses,  both  active  and  passive.  Lan- 
guage has  undergone  a  change  in  conjugation,  perfectly  similar  to 
that  which  I  showed  in  the  last  lecture,  it  underwent  with  respect 
to  declension.  As  prepositions,  prefixed  to  the  noun,  superseded 
the  use  of  cases ;  so  the  two  great  auxiliary  verbs,  to  have,  and  to 
be,  with  those  other  auxiliaries  which  we  use  in  English,  do,  shall, 
will,  may,  and  can,  prefixed  to  the  participle,  supersede,  in  a  great 
measure,  the  different  terminations  of  moods  and  tenses,  which  form- 
ed the  ancient  conjugations. 

The  alteration,  in  both  cases,  was  owing  to  the  same  cause,  and 
will  be  easily  understood,  from  reflecting  on  what  was  formerly  ob- 
served. The  auxiliary  verbs  are,  like  prepositions,  words  of  a  very 
general  and  abstiact  nature.  They  imply  the  different  modifications 


lect.  ix  1        STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.  93 

of  simple  existence,  considered  alone,  and  without  reference  to  any 
particular  thing.  In  the  early  state  of  speech,  the  import  of  them 
would  be  incorporated,  with  every  particular  verb  in  its  tenses 
and  moods,  long  before  words  were  invented  for  denoting  such 
abstract  conceptions  of  existence,  alone,  and  by  themselves.  Bui 
after  those  auxiliary  verbs  came,  in  the  progress  of  language,  to 
oe  invented  and  known,  and  to  have  tenses  and  moods  given  to  them 
like  other  verbs;  it  was  found,  that  as  they  carried  in  their  nature 
the  force  of  that  affirmation  which  distinguishes  the  verb,  they  might, 
by  being  joined  with  the  participle  which  gives  the  meaning  of  the 
verb,  supply  the  place  of  most  of  the  moods  and  tenses.  Hence, 
as  the  modern  tongues  began  to  rise  out  of  the  ruins  of  the  ancient, 
this  method  established  itself  in  the  new  formation  of  speech.  Such 
words,  for  instance,  as  am,  was,  have,  shall,  being  once  familiar,  it 
appeared  more  easy  to  apply  these  to  any  verb  whatever;  as,  lam 
loved ;  I  was  loved;  I  have  loved;  than  to  remember  that  variety  of 
terminations  which  were  requisite  in  conjugating  the  ancient  verbs, 
amor,  amabar,  amavi,  8?c.  Two  or  three  varieties  only  in  the  termi- 
nation of  the  verb,  were  retained,  as,  love,  loved,  loving ;  and  all  the 
rest  were  dropt.  The  consequence,  however,  of  this  practice,  was 
the  same  as  that  of  abolishing  declensions.  It  rendered  language 
more  simple  and  easy  in  its  structure;  but  wTithal,  more  prolix,  and 
less  graceful.  This  finishes  all  that  seemed  most  necessary  to  be 
observed  with  respect  to  verbs. 

The  remaining  parts  of  speech,  which  are  called  the  indeclinable 
parts,  or  that  admit  of  no  variations,  will  not  detain  us  long. 

Adverbs  are  the  first  that  occur.  These  form  a  very  numerous 
class  of  words  in  every  language,  reducible,  in  general,  to  the  head 
of  attributives;  as  they  serve  to  modify,  or  to  denote  some  circum- 
stance of  an  action  or  of  a  quality,  relative  to  its  time,  place,  order, 
degree,  and  the  other  properties  of  it,  which  we  have  occasion  to 
specify.  They  are,  for  the  most  part,  no  more  than  an  abridged  mode 
of  speech,  expressing,  by  one  word,  what  might,  by  a  circumlocu- 
tion, be  resolved  into  two  or  more  words  belonging  to  the  other  parts 
of  speech.  'Exceedingly,'  for  instance,  is  the  same  as  'in  a  high 
degree;'  'bravely,'  the  same  as,  'with  bravery  or  valour;'  'here,' 
the  same  as,  'in  this  place;'  'often,  and  seldom,'  the  same  as,  'for 
many  and  for  few  times,'  and  so  of  the  rest.  Hence,  adverbs  may 
be  conceived  as  of  less  necessity,  and  of  later  introduction  into  the 
system  of  speech,  than  many  other  classes  of  words ;  and  accordingly, 
the  great  body  of  them  are  derived  from  other  words  formerly  es- 
tablished in  the  language. 

Prepositions  and  conjunctions,  are  words  more  essential  to  dis- 
course than  the  greatest  part  of  adverbs.  They  form  that  class  of 
words,  cali-ed  connectives,  without  which  there  could  be  no  lan- 
guage ;  serving  to  express  the  relations  which  things  bear  to  one 
another,  their  mutual  influence,  dependencies,  and  coherence; 
thereby  joining  words  together  into  intelligible  and  significant  pro- 
positions. Conjunctions  are  generally  employed  for  connecting  sen- 
tences, or  me  "nbers  of  sentences  ;  as,  and,  because,  although,  and 


94  STRUCTURE  OF  LANGUAGE.        [lect.  ix 

the  like.  Prepositions  are  employed  for  connecting  words  by  show- 
ing the  relation  which  one  substantive  noun  hears  to  another ;  as,  of, 
from,  to,  above,  below,  tyc.  Of  the  force  of  these  I  had  occasion  to 
speak  before,  when  treating  of  the  cases  and  declensions  of  sub- 
stantive nouns. 

It  is  abundantly  evident,  that  all  these  connective  particles  musl 
be  of  the  greatest  use  in  speech;  seeing  they  point  out  the  relations 
and  transitions  by  which  the  mind  passes  from  one  idea  to  another. 
They  are  the  foundation  of  all  reasoning,  which  is  no  other  thing 
than  the  connexion  of  thoughts.  And,  therefore,  though  among 
barbarous  nations,  and  in  the  rude  uncivilized  ages  of  the  world,  the 
stock  of  these  words  might  be  small,  it  must  always  have  increased, 
as  mankind  advanced  in  the  arts  of  reasoning  and  reflection.  The 
more  that  any  nation  is  improved  by  science,  and  the  more  perfect 
their  language  becomes,  we  may  naturally  expect  that  it  will  abound 
more  with  connective  particles;  expressing  relations  of  things,  and 
transitions  of  thought,  which  had  escaped  a  grosser  view.  Accord- 
ingly, no  tongue  is  so  full  of  them  as  the  Greek,  in  consequence  of 
the  acute  and  subtile  genius  of  that  refined  people.  In  every  lan- 
guage, much  of  the  beauty  and  strength  of  it  depends  on  the  pro- 
per use  of  conjunctions,  prepositions,  and  those  relative  pronouns, 
which  also  serve  the  same  purpose  of  connecting  the  different  parts 
of  discourse.  It  is  the  right,  or  wrong  management  of  these,  which 
chiefly  makes  discourse  appear  firm  and  compacted,  or  disjointed 
and  loose;  which  carries  it  on  its  progress  with  a  smooth  and  even 
pace,  or  renders  its  march  irregular  and  desultory. 

I  shall  dwell  no  longer  on  the  general  construction  of  language. 
Allow  me,  only,  before  I  dismiss  the  subject,  to  observe,  that  dry  and 
intricate  as  it  may  seem  to  some,  it  is,  however,  of  great  importance, 
and  very  nearly  connected  with  the  philosophy  of  the  human  mind. 
For,  if  speech  be  the  vehicle,  or  interpreter  of  the  conceptions  oi 
our  minds,  an  examination  of  its  structure  and  progress  cannot  but 
unfold  many  things  concerning  the  nature  and  progress  of  our  con- 
ceptions themselves,  and  the  operations  of  our  faculties;  a  subject 
that  is  always  instructive  to  man.  'Nequis,'  says  Quintilian,  an  au- 
thor of  excellent  judgment,  <  nequis  tanquam  parva  fastidiat  gram- 
■natices  elementa.  Non  quia  magna?  sit  operas  consonantes  a  vocali- 
ous  discernere,  easque  in  semivocalium  numerum,  mutarumque  par- 
tiri,  sed  quia  interiora  velut  sacri  hujus  adeuntibus,  apparebit  multa 
rerum  subtilitas,  qua?  non  modo  acuere  ingenia  puerilia,  sed  exercere 
altissimam  quoque  eruditionem  ac  scientiam  possit.'*     i.  4. 

Let  us  now  come  nearer  to  our  own  language.  In  this,  and  the 
preceding  lecture,  some  observations  have  already  been  made  on  its 

*  "  Let  no  man  despise,  as  inconsiderable,  the  elements  of  grammar,  because  it  may 
seem  to  him  a  matter  of  small  consequence,  to  show  the  distinction  between  vowels  and 
consonants,  and  to  divide  the  latter  into  liquids  and  mutes.  But  they  who  penetrate 
into  the  innermost  parts  of  this  teinrle  of  science,  will  there  discover  such  refinement 
una  subtilty  of  matter,  as  is  not  only  prop  t  to  sharpen  the  understandings  of  young 
men,  but  sufficient  to  give  exercise  for  Ihe  most  profound  knowledge  and  erudition." 


lect.  ix.]  THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE.  95 

structure.     But  it  is  proper  that  we  should  be  a  little  moie  particu- 
lar in  the  examination  of  it. 

The  language  which  is,  at  present,  spoken  throughout  Great  Bri- 
tain, is  neither  the  ancient  primitive  speech  of  the  island,  nor  de- 
rived from  it ;  but  is  altogether  of  foz'eign  origin.  The  language  of 
the  first  inhabitants  of  our  island,  beyond  doubt,  was  the  Celtic,  or 
Gaelic,  common  to  them  with  Gaul ;  from  which  country  it  appears, 
by  many  circumstances,  that  Great  Britain  was  peopled.  This  Celtic 
tongue,  which  is  said  to  be  very  expressive  and  copious,  and  is,  pro- 
bably, one  of  the  most  ancient  languages  in  the  world,  obtained  once 
in  most  of  the  western  regions  of  Europe.  It  was  the  language  of  Gaul, 
of  Great  Britain,  of  Ireland,  and,  very  probably,  of  Spain  also  ;  till, 
in  the  course  of  those  revolutions  which,  by  means  of  the  con- 
quests, first,  of  the  Romans,  and  afterwards,  of  the  northern  nations, 
changed  the  government,  speech,  and,  in  a  manner,  the  whole  face 
of  Europe,  this  tongue  was  gradually  obliterated  ;  and  now  subsists 
only  in  the  mountains  of  Wales,  in  the  Highlands  of  Scotland,  and 
among  the  wild  Irish.  For  the  Irish,  the  Welch,  and  the  Erse,  are 
no  other  than  different  dialects  of  the  same  tongue,  the  ancient  Celtic. 

This,  then,  was  the  language  of  the  primitive  Britons,  the  first 
inhabitants  that  we  know  of  in  our  island;  and  continued  so  till 
the  arrival  of  the  Saxons  in  England,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  450  ; 
who,  having  conquered  the  Britons,  did  not  intermix  with  them, 
but  expelled  them  from  their  habitations,  and  drove  them,  together 
with  their  language,  into  the  mountains  of  Wales.  The  Saxons  were 
one  of  those  northern  nations  that  overran  Europe ;  and  their 
tongue,  a  dialect  of  the  Gothic  or  Teutonic,  altogether  distinct  from 
the  Celtic,  laid  the  foundation  of  the  present  English  tongue.  With 
some  intermixture  of  Danish,  a  language,  probably,  from  the  same 
root  with  the  Saxon,  it  continued  to  be  spoken  throughout  the 
southern  part  of  the  island,  till  the  time  of  William  the  Conqueror. 
He  introduced  his  Norman,  or  French,  as  the  language  of  the  court, 
which  made  a  considerable  change  in  the  speech  of  the  nation  ;  and 
the  English  which  was  spoken  afterwards,  and  continues  to  be  spo- 
ken now,  is  a  mixture  of  the  ancient  Saxon,  and  this  Norman 
French,  together  with  such  new  and  foreign  words  as  commerce 
and  learning  have,  in  progress  of  time,  gradually  introduced. 

The  history  of  the  English  language  can,  in  this  manner,  be 
clearly  traced.  The  language  spoken  in  the  Low  Countries  of  Scot- 
land, is  now,  and  has  been  for  many  centuries,  no  other  than  a  dia- 
lect of  the  English.  How,  indeed,  or  by  what  steps,  the  ancient 
Celtic  tongue  came  to  be  banished  from  the  Low  Country  in  Scot- 
land, and  to  make  its  retreat  into  the  Highlands  and  islands,  can- 
not be  so  well  pointed  out,  as  how  the  like  revolution  was  brought 
about  in  England.  Whether  the  southernmost  part  of  Scotland  was 
once  subject  to  the  Saxons,  and  formed  a  part  of  the  kingdom  of 
Northumberland;  or  whether  the  great  number  of  English  exiles 
that  retreated  into  Scotland,  upon  the  Norman  conquest,  and  upon 
other  occasions,  introduced  into  that  country  their  own  language, 


96  THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE.  [iject.  ix. 

which  afterwards,  by  the  mutual  intercourse  of  the  two  nations, 
prevailed  over  the  Celtic,  are  uncertain  and  contested  points,  the 
discussion  of  which  would  lead  us  too  far  from  our  subject. 

From  what  has  been  said,  it  appears  that  the  Teutonic  dialect  is 
the  basis  of  our  present  speech.  It  has  been  imported  among  us  in 
three  different  forms,  the  Saxon,  the  Danish,  and  the  Norman ;  all 
which  have  mingled  together  in  our  language.  A  very  great  num- 
ber of  our  words,  too,  are  plainly  derived  from  the  Latin.  These 
we  had  not  directly  from  the  Latin,  but  most  of  them,  it  is  probable, 
entered  into  our  tongue,  through  the  channel  of  that  Norman  French, 
which  William  the  Conqueror  introduced.  For,  as  the  Romans  had 
long  been  in  full  possession  of  Gaul,  the  language  spoken  in  that 
country,  when  it  was  invaded  by  the  Franks  and  Normans,  was  a  sort 
of  corrupted  Latin,  mingled  with  Celtic,  to  which  was  given  the 
name  of  Romanshe  :  and  as  the  Franks  and  Normans  did  not,  like 
the  Saxons  in  England,  expel  the  inhabitants,  but,  after  their  victo- 
ries, mingled  with  them ;  the  language  of  the  country  became  a 
compound  of  the  Teutonic  dialect  imported  by  these  conquerors, 
and  of  the  former  corrupted  Latin.  Hence,  the  French  language 
has  always  continued  to  have  a  very  considerable  affinity  with  the 
Latin  ;  and  hence,  a  great  number  of  words  of  Latin  origin,  which 
were  in  use  among  the  Normans  in  France,  were  introduced  into 
our  tongue  at  the  conquest ;  to  which,  indeed,  many  have  since 
been  added,  directly  from  the  Latin,  in  consequence  of  the  great 
diffusion  of  Roman  literature  throughout  all  Europe. 

From  the  influx  of  so  many  streams,  from  the  junction  of  so  many 
dissimilar  parts,  it  naturally  follows, that  the  English,  like  every 
compounded  language,  must  needs  be  somewhat  irregular.  We 
cannot  expect  from  it  that  correspondence  of  parts,  that  complete 
analogy  in  structure,  which  may  be  found  in  those  simpler  langua- 
ges, which  have  been  formed  in  a  manner  within  themselves,  and 
built  on  one  foundation.  Hence,  as  I  before  showed,  it  has  but  small 
remains  of  conjugation  or  declension  ;  and  its  syntax  is  narrow,  as 
there  are  few  marks  in  the  words  themselves,  that  can  show  their 
relation  to  each  other,  or,  in  the  grammatical  style,  point  out  either 
their  concordance,  or  their  government  in  the  sentence.  Our  words 
having  been  brought  to  us  from  several  different  regions,  straggle, 
if  we  may  so  speak,  asunder  from  each  other ;  and  do  not  coalesce 
so  naturally  in  the  structure  of  a  sentence,  as  the  words  in  the 
Greek  and  Roman  tongues. 

But  these  disadvantages,  if  they  be  such,  of  a  compound  Ian 
gu,\ge,  are  balanced  by  other  advantages  that  attend  it;  particularly, 
by  the  number  and  variety  of  words  with  which  such  a  language  is 
likely  to  be  enriched.  Few  languages  are,  in  fact,  more  copious 
than  "the  English.  In  all  grave  subjects  especially,  historical,  criti- 
cal, political,  and  moral,  no  writer  has  the  least  reason  to  complain 
of  the  barrenness  of  our  tongue.  The  st'jdious  reflecting  genius  oi 
the  people,  has  brought  together  great  store  of  expressions,  on  such 
subjects,  from  every  quarter.  We  are  rich  too  in  the  language  of 
poetry.     Our  poetical  style  differs  widely  from  prose,  not  in  point 


lect  rx  ]         THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE.  97 

of  numbers  only,  but  in  the  very  words  themselves;  which  shows 
what  a  stock  and  compass  of  words  we  have  it  in  our  power  to  se- 
lect and  employ,  suited  to  those  different  occasions.  Herein  we  are 
infinitely  superior  to  the  French,  whose  poetical  language,  if  it  were 
not  distinguished  by  rhyme,  would  not  be  known  to  differ  from  their 
ordinary  prose. 

It  is  chiefly,  indeed,  on  grave  subjects,  and  with  respect  to  the 
stronger  emotions  of  the  mind,  that  our  language  displays  its  power 
of  expression.  We  are  said  to  have  thirty  words,  at  least,  for  de- 
noting all  the  varieties  of  the  passion  of  anger.*  But,  in  describing 
the  more  delicate  sentiments  and  emotions,  our  tongue  is  not  so  fer- 
tile. It  must  be  confessed,  that  the  French  language  far  surpasses  ours, 
in  expressing  the  nicer  shades  of  character ;  especially  those  varieties 
of  manner,  temper,  and  behaviour,  which  are  displayed  in  our  social 
intercourse  with  one  another.  Let  any  one  attempt  to  translate  into 
English,  only  a  few  pages  of  one  of  Marivaux's  novels,  and  he  will 
soon  be  sensible  of  our  deficiency  of  expression  on  these  subjects. 
Indeed,  no  language  is  so  copious  as  the  French  for  whatever  is  deli- 
cate, gay,  and  amusing.  It  is,  perhaps,  the  happiest  language  for  con- 
versation, in  the  known  world ;  but  on  the  higher  subjects  of  com- 
position, the  English  may  be  justly  esteemed  to  excel  it  considerably. 

Language  is  generally  understood  to  receive  its  predominant 
tincture  from  the  national  character  of  the  people  who  speak  it.  We 
must  not,  indeed,  expect  that  it  will  carry  an  exact  and  full  impres- 
sion of  their  genius  and  manners ;  for  among  all  nations,  the  original 
~>tock  of  words  which  they  received  from  their  ancestors,  remain  as 
the  foundation  of  their  speech  throughout  many  ages,  while  their 
manners  undergo,  perhaps,  very  great  alterations.  National  charac- 
ter will,  however,  always  have  some  perceptible  influence  on  tne 
turn  of  language;  and  the  gayety  and  vivacity  of  the  French,  and 
the  gravity  and  thoughtfulness  of  the  English,  are  sufficiently  im- 
pressed on  their  respective  tongues. 

From  the  genius  of  our  language,  and  the  character  of  those  who 
speak  it,  it  may  be  expected  to  have  strength  and  energy.  It  is,  in- 
deed, naturally  prolix,  owing  to  the  great  number  of  particles  and 
auxiliary  verbs  which  we  are  obliged  constantly  to  employ;  and  this 
prolixity  must,  in  some  degree,  enfeeble  it.  We  seldom  can  express  so 
much  bv  one  word  as  was  done  by  the  verbs,  and  by  the  nouns,  in 
the  Greek  and  Roman  languages.  Our  style  is  less  compact;  our 
conceptions  being  spread  out  among  more  words,  and  split,  as  it 
were,  into  more  parts,  make  a  fainter  impression  when  we  after 
them.  Notwithstanding  this  defect,  by  our  abounding  in  terms  for 
expressing  all  the  strong  emotions  of  the  mind,  and  by  the  liberty 
which  we  enjoy,  in  a  greater  degree  than  most  natiens,  of  com- 
pounding words,  our  language  may  be  esteemed  to  possess  consider- 

*  A  np-er,  wrath,  passion,  rage,  fury,  outrage,  fierceness,  sharpness,  animosity,  ciioler 
resentment  heat,  heart-burning-,  to  fume,  storm,  inflame,  be  incensed,  to  vex,  kindle 
innate,  enrage,  exasperate,  provoke,  fret ;  to  be  sullen,  hasty,  hot,  rough,  soui 
peevish,  fcc.     Preface  to  Greenwood's  Grammar. 

13 


58  THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE.        [lect.  hc 

able  force  of  exi  ression ;  comparatively,  at  least,  with  the  other 
modern  tongues,  though  much  below  the  ancient.  The  style  oi 
Milton  alone,  both  in  poetry  and  prose,  is  a  sufficient  proof,  that  the 
English  tongue  is  far  from  being  destitute  of  nerves  and  energy. 

The  flexibility  of  a  language,  or  its  power  of  accommodation  to 
different  styles  and  manners,  so  as  to  be  either  grave  and  strong,  o 
easy  and  flowing,  or  tender  and  gentle,  or  pompous  and  magnificent 
as  occasions  require,  or  as  an  author's  genius  prompts,  is  a  quality 
of  great  importance  in  speaking  and  writing.  It  seems  to  depend 
upon  three  tilings;  the  copiousness  of  a  language;  the  different  ar- 
rangements of  which  its  words  are  susceptible;  and  the  variety  and 
beauty  of  the  sound  of  those  words,  so  as  to  correspond  to  many 
different  subjects.  Never  did  any  tongue  possess  this  quality  so 
eminently  as  the  Greek,  which  every  writer  of  genius  could  so  mould, 
as  to  make  the  style  perfectly  expressive  of  his  own  manner  and  pe- 
culiar turn.  It  had  all  the  three  requisites,  which  I  have  mentioned 
as  necessary  for  this  purpose.  It  joined  to  these  the  graceful  variety 
of  its  different  dialects;  and  thereby  readily  assumed  every  sort  ot 
character  which  an  author  could  wish,  from  the  most  simple  and 
most  familiar,  up  to  the  most  majestic.  The  Latin,  though  a  very 
beautiful  language,  is  inferior,  in  this  respect,  to  the  Greek.  It  has 
more  of  a  fixed  character  of  stateliness  and  gravity.  It  is  always 
firm  and  masculine  in  t'f,c  tenour  of  its  sound;  and  is  supported  by 
a  certain  senatorial  dignity,  of  which  it  is  difficult  for  a  writer  to  di- 
vest it  wholly,  on  any  occasion.  Among  the  modern  tongues,  the 
Italian  possesses  a  great  deal  more  of  this  flexibility  than  the  French. 
By  its  copiousness,  its  freedom  of  arrangement,  and  the  great  beauty 
and  harmony  of  its  sounds,  it  suits  itself  very  happily  to  most  sub- 
jects, either  in  prose  or  in  poetry;  is  capable  of  the  august  and  the 
strong  as  well  as  the  tender;  and  seems  to  be,  on  the  whole,  the 
most  perfect  of  all  the  modern  dialects  which  have  arisen  out  of  the 
ruins  of  the  ancient.  Our  own  language,  though  not  equal  to  the 
Italian  in  flexibility,  yet  is  not  destitute  of  a  considerable  degree  of 
this  quality.  If  any  one  will  consider  the  diversity  of  style  which 
appears  in  some  of  our  classics,  that  great  difference  of  manner,  for 
instance,  which  is  marked  by  the  style  of  Lord  Shaftesbury,  and 
that  of  Dean  Swift,  he  will  see,  in  our  tongue,  such  a  circle  of  ex- 
pression, such  a  power  of  accommodation  to  the  different  taste  of 
writers,  as  redounds  not  a  little  to  its  honour. 

What  the  Englislrhas  been  most  taxed  with,  is  its  deficiency  in 
harmony  of  sound.  But  though  every  native  is  apt  to  be  partial  to 
the  sounds  of  his  own  language,  and  may,  therefore,  be  suspected  of 
not  being  a  fair  judge  in  this  point;  yet,  I  imagine,  there  are  evi- 
dent grounds  on  which  it  may  be  shown,  that  this  charge  against  our 
tongue  has  been  carried  too  for.  The  melody  of  our  versification, 
its  power  of  supporting  poetical  numbers  without  any  assistance 
from  rhyme,  is  alone  a  sufficient  proof  that  our  language  is  far  from 
being  unmusical.  Our  verse  is,  after  the  Italian,  the  most  diversified 
and  harmonious  of  any  of  the  modern  dialects;  unquestionably  far 
beyond  the  French  verse,  in  variety,  sweetness,  and  melody.     Mr. 


lf.it.  ix.]  THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE.  99 

Sheridan  has  shown,  in  his  lectures,  that  we  abound  more  in  vowel 
and  diphthong  sounds,  than  most  languages;  and  these  too,  so  divi 
ded  into  long  and  short,  as  to  afford  a  proper  diversity  in  the  quanti- 
ty of  our  syllables.  Our  consonants,  he  observes,  which  appear  so 
crowded  to  the  eye  on  paper,  often  form  combinations,  not  disagree- 
able to  the  ear  in  pronouncing;  and,  in  particular,  the  objection 
which  has  been  made  to  the  frequent  recurrence  of  the  hissing  con- 
sonant s  in  our  language,  is  unjust  and  ill-founded.  For,  it  has  not 
been  attended  to,  that  very  commonly,  and  in  the  final  syllables  es- 
pecially, this  letter  loses  altogether  the  hissing  sound,  and  is  trans- 
formed into  a  z,  which  is  one  of  the  sounds  on  which  the  ear  rests  with 
pleasure ;  as  in  has,  these,  those,  loves,  hears,  and  innumerable  more, 
where,  though  the  letter  s  be  retained  in  writing,  it  has  really  the 
power  of  z,  not  of  the  common  s. 

After  all,  however,  it  must  be  admitted,  that  smoothness,  or  beau- 
ty of  sound,  is  not  one  of  the  distinguishing  properties  of  the  Eng- 
lish tongue.  Though  not  incapable  of  being  formed  into  melodious 
arrangements,  yet  strength  and  expressiveness,  more  than  grace, 
form  its  character.  We  incline,  in  general,  to  a  short  pronunciation 
of  our  words,  and  have  shortened  the  quantity  of  most  of  those 
which  we  borrowfrom  the  Latin,  as  orator, spectacle,  theatre,  liberty, 
and  such  like.  Agreeable  to  this,  is  a  remarkable  peculiarity  of 
English  pronunciation,  the  throwing  the  accent  farther  back,  that  is, 
nearer  the  beginning  of  the  word  than  is  done  by  any  other  nation. 
In  Greek  and  Latin,  no  word  is  accented  farther  back  than  the  third 
syllable  from  the  end,  or  what  is  called  the  antepenult.  But,  in 
English,  we  have  many  words  accented  on  the  fourth,  some  on  the 
fifth  s)  liable  from  theend,  as,  memorable,  conveniency,  ambulatory, 
vrojitableness.  The  general  effect  of  this  practice  of  hastening  the 
accent,  or  placing  it  so  near  the  beginning  of  a  word,  is  to  give  a 
brisk  and  a  spirited,  but  at  the  same  time,  a  rapid  and  hurried,  and 
not  \  ery  musical,  tone  to  the  whole  pronunciation  of  a  people. 

Ti  e  English  tongue  possesses,  undoubtedly,  this  property,  that  it 
is  th'j  most  simple  in  its  form  and  construction,  of  all  the  European 
diale.ts.  It  is  free  from  all  intricacy  of  cases,  declensions,  moods, 
and  .^nses  Its  words  are  subject  to  fewer  variations  from  their 
orig<  >al  form  tha  those  of  any  other  language.  Its  substantives 
havr  no  distinction  of  gender,  except  what  nature  has  made,  and  but 
one  variation  in  case.  Its  adjectives  admit  of  no  change  at  all,  ex- 
cept what  expresses  the  degree  of  comparison.  Its  verbs,  instead  of 
running  through  all  the  varieties  of  ancient  conjugation,  suffer  no 
more  than  four  or  five  changes  in  termination.  By  the  help  of  a 
few  prepositions  and  auxiliary  verbs,  all  the  purposes  of  significance 
in  meaning  are  accomplished ;  while  the  words,  for  the  most  part, 
preserve  their  form  unchanged.  The  disadvantages  in  point  of  ele- 
gance, brevity,  and  force,  which  follow  from  this  structure  of  our  lan- 
guage, I  have  before  pointed  out.  But,  at  the  same  time,  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted, that  such  a  structure  contributes  to  facility.  It  renders  the  ac- 
quisition of  our  language  less  laborious,  the  arrangement  of  our  words 
more  plain  and  obvious,  the  rules  of  our  syntax  fewer  and  more  simple 
P 


100  THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE.       [lect.  ix 

I  ?rree,  indeed,  with  Dr.  Lowth,  (Preface  to  his  grammar)  in 
thinking,  that  the  simplicity  and  facility  of  our  language  occa 
sion  its  being  frequently  written  and  spoken  with  less  accura 
;y.  It  was  necessary  to  study  languages  which  were  of  a  more 
complex  and  artificial  form,  with  greater  care.  The  marks  of  gen- 
der and  case,  the  varieties  of  conjugation  and  declension,  the  mul- 
tiplied rules  of  syntax,  were  all  to  be  attended  to  in  speech.  Hence 
language  became  more  an  object  of  art.  It  was  reduced  into  form; 
a  standard  was  established ;  and  any  departures  from  the  standard 
became  conspicuous.  Whereas,  among  us,  language  is  hardly  con- 
sidered as  an  object  of  grammatical  rule.  We  take  it  for  granted, 
that  a  competent  skill  in  it  may  be  acquired  without  any  study:  and 
that  in  a  syntax  so  narrow  and  confined  as  ours,  there  is  nothing 
which  demands  attention.  Hence  arises  the  habit  of  writing  in  a 
loose  and  inaccurate  manner. 

I  admit,  that  no  grammatical  rules  have  sufficient  authority  to  con- 
trol the  firm  and  established  usage  of  language.  Established  cus- 
tom in  speaking  and  writing,  is  the  standard  to  which  we  must  at 
last  resort  for  determiningevery  controverted  point  in  language  and 
style.  But  it  will  not  follow  from  this,  that  grammatical  rules  are 
superseded  as  useless.  In  every  language,  which  has  been  in  any 
degree  cultivated,  there  prevails  a  certain  structure  and  analogy  of 
parts,  which  is  understood  to  give  foundation  to  the  most  reputable 
usage  of  speech;  and  which,  in  all  cases,  when  usage  is  loose  or  du- 
bious, possesses  considerable  authorit}T.  In  every  language,  there  are 
rules  of  S3'ntax  which  must  be  inviolably  observed  by  all  who  would 
either  write  or  speak  with  an)' propriety.  For  syntax  is  no  other  than 
that  arrangement  of  words,  inasentence,  which  renders  the  meaning 
of  each  word,  and  the  relation  of  all  the  words  to  one  another,  most 
clear  and  intelligible. 

All  the  rules  of  Latin  syntax,  it  is  true,  cannot  be  applied  to  our 
language.  Many  of  these  rules  arose  from  the  particular  form  of 
their  language,  which  occasioned  verbs  or  prepositions  to  govern, 
some  the  genitive,  some  the  dative,  some  the  accusative  or  ablative 
case.  But,  abstracting  from  these  peculiarities,  it  is  to  be  always 
remembered,  that  the  chief  and  fundamental  rules  of  syntax  are 
common  to  the  English  as  well  as  the  Latin  tongue;  and,  indeed,  be- 
long equally  to  all  languages.  For  in  all  languages,  the  parts  which 
compose  speech  are  essential!}^  the  same;  substantives,  adjectives, 
verbs,  and  connecting  particles:  and  wherever  these  parts  of  speech 
are  foun  J,  there  are  certain  necessary  relations  among  them,  which 
regulate  their  syntax,  or  the  place  which  they  ought  to  possess  hi  a 
sentence.  Thus,  in  English,  just  as  much  as  in  Latin,  the  adjective 
must  by  position,  be  made  to  agree  with  its  substantive;  and  the 
verb  must  agree  with  its  nominative  in  person  and  number;  because, 
from  the  nature  of  things,  a  word,  which  expresses  either  a  quality 
or  an  action,  must  correspond  as  closely  as  possible  with  the  name 
of  that  thing  whose  quality,  or  whose  action,  it  expresses.  Two  or 
more  substantives,  joined  by  a  copulative,  must  always  require  the 
verbs  or  pronouns,  to  which  they  refer,  to  be  placed  in  the  plural 


lect.  ix.]  THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE.  101 

number;  ctrerwise,  their  common  relation  to  these  verbs  or  pro 
nouns  is  not  pointed  out.  An  active  verb  must,  in  every  language, 
govern  the  accusative ;  that  is,  'clearly  point  out  some  substantive 
noun,  as  the  object  to  which  its  action  is  directed.  A  relative  pro- 
noun must,  in  every  form  of  speech,  agree  with  its  antecedent  in 
gender,  number,  and  person ;  and  conjunctions,  or  connecting  parti- 
cles, ought  always  to  couple  like  cases  and  moods ;  that  is,  ought 
to  join  together  words  which  are  of  the  same  form  and  state  with 
each  other.  I  mention  these,  as  a  few  exemplifications  of  that  fun- 
damental regard  to  syntax,  which,  even  in  such  a  language  as  ours, 
is  absolutely  requisite  for  writing  or  speaking  with  any  propriety. 

Whatever  the  advantages  or  defects  of  the  English  language  be, 
as  it  is  our  own  language,  it  deserves  a  high  degree  of  our  study  and 
attention,  both  with  regard  to  the  choice  of  words  which  we  employ, 
and  with  regard  to  the  syntax,  or  the  arrangement  of  these  words 
in  a  sentence.  We  know  how  much  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  in  their 
most  polished  and  flourishing  times,  cultivated  their  own  tongues. 
We  know  how  much  study  both  the  French,  and  the  Italians,  have 
bestowed  upon  theirs.  Whatever  knowledge  may  be  acquired  by 
the  study  of  other  languages,  it  can  never  be  communicated  with  ad- 
vantage, unless  by  such  as  can  write  and  speak  their  own  language 
well.  Let  the  matter  of  an  author  be  ever  so  good  and  useful,  his 
compositions  will  always  suffer  in  the  public  esteem,  if  his  expression 
oe  deficient  in  purity  and  propriety.  At  the  same  time,  the  attain- 
ment of  a  correct  and  elegant  style,  is  an  object  which  demands  ap- 
plication and  labour.  If  any  imagine  they  can  catch  it  merely  by 
the  ear,  or  acquire  it  by  a  slight  perusal  of  some  of  our  good  authors, 
they  will  find  themselves  much  disappointed.  The  many  errors,  even 
in  point  of  grammar,  the  many  offences  against  purity  of  language, 
which  are  committed  by  writers  who  are  far  from  being  contempti- 
ble, demonstrate,  that  a  careful  study  of  the  language  is  previously 
requisite,  in  all  who  aim  at  writing  it  properly.* 

aUESTIOtfS. 


Of  the  verb,  what  is  observed  ?  In 
it,  what  appears  ;  and  therefore,  what 
follows?  Why  will  our  author  avoid 
dwelling  longer  on  this  subject,  than  is 
absolutely  necessary  ?  What  property 
has  tbe  verb,  in  common  with  the  ad- 
jective? In  all  verbs,  what  three  things 
are  implied  at  once  ?  How  is  this  re- 
mark illustrated  ?  Of  the  particle  shi- 
iting;  what  is  remarked  ?  What  may 
the  infinitive  mood,  to  shine,  be  called; 
and  why  ?  Hence,  what  resemblance 
does  the  infinitive  mood  often  carry  ? 
What  examples  are  given  ?  What  is 
that  which   chiefly  distinguishes    the 


verb  from'other  parts  of  speech?  Hence, 
what  follows;,  and  why?  What  ha* 
arisen  from  this  sort  of  eminence? 
Why  must  verb"  have  been  coeval 
with  men's  first  attempts  towards  the 
formation  of  language?  What,  is  it 
probable,  was  its  radical  form ;  and 
why  ?  What  did  such  verbs  afterwards 
become,  and  into  what  did  they  branch 
out  ?  For  what  are  the  tenses  contri 
ved?  Why  must  notice  be  taken  of 
these  ?  Of  what  divisions  of  time  do  we 
naturally  think  ?  Under  what  circum- 
stances might  we  imagine  that  no  more 
were  needful  ?  But  how  does  language 


*  On  this  subject,  the  reader  ought  to  peruse  Dr.  Lc  "*K\"  fti  "i  Introduction  to  English 
Grammar,  with  Critical  Notes;  Dr.  Campbell's  Phil  «<v\ic-V\7  "t  Khctoric  ;  and  Dr.  I'ri  <s* 
iy's  Ruv'viicnts  of  English  Grammar 


101  a 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  IX 


proceed,  and  into  what  does,  u  split 
time?  How  does  it  consider  it;  and 
hence,  what,  follows  ?  How  may  the 
present  be  considered?  What  examples 
are  given  ?  How  many  past  tenses  are 
found  in  the  poorest  languages  ?  How 
many  has  ours  ?  Define  each,  and  give 
the  illustrative  examples.  Here,  what 
do  we  with  pleasure,  observe  ?  What 
tense  have  they  not  ?  In  both  cases, 
what  must  they  say  ?  How  is  the  ad- 
vantage of  our  language  illustrated  ? 
Define  the  two  varietiesoft  he  future,  and 
give  examples  of  each.  Besides  tenses, 
what  other  distinction  do  verbs  admit  ? 
For  what  are  moods  designed  ?  Define 
the  indicative,  the  imperative,  and  the 
subjunctive  moods ;  and  give  examples 
of  each.  What  does  this  manner  of  ex- 
pressing an  affirmation,  &c.  form  ? 
What  now  clearly  appears?  How  is 
this  fully  illustrated  ?  What  is  a  curi- 
ous and  remarkable  fact?  In  what 
languages  is  conjugation  esteemed  most 
perfect  ?  What  is  said  of  the  tenses  of 
oriental  tongues  ?  How  is  this  deficien- 
cy supplied  ?  What  example  is  given  ? 
Of  the  tenses  and  moods  of  the  Greek 
language,  what  is  remarked  ?  Of  the 
Latin,  what  is  observed  ?  What  is  the 
state  of  conjugation,  in  modern  Euro- 
pean tongues  ?  In  what  do  they  admit 
few  varieties ;  and  to  what  have  they 
constant  recourse?  To  what  is  the 
change  which  language  has  undergone 
in  conjugation,  similar?  What  illus- 
tration of  this  remark  is  given  ?  How 
may  the  alteration  be  easily  under- 
stood ?  Of  the  auxiliary  verbs,  what  is 
remarked?  What  do  they  imply? 
WTith  what,  in  the  early  state  of  speech, 
would  their  import  be  incorporated  ? 
In  what  manner  was  it  afterwards 
found  that  these  auxiliaries  might  sup- 
ply the  place  of  most  of  the  moods  and 
tenses  ?  Hence,  what  followed  ?  What 
examples  oC  illustration  are  given? 
What  few  varieties  were  retained  ? 
What  was  the  consequence  of  this 
practice?  What  effect  had  it  on  lan- 
guage ?  Wha*  are  the  remaining  parts 
of  speech  called  ?  Of  these,  what  are 
the  first  that  occur  ?  To  what  are  they 
reducible ;  and  why  ?  For  the  most 
part,  what  are  they;  expressing  what? 
Hence,  of  them,  what  may  be  con- 
ceived ;  and  accordingly,  whence  are 
the  great  body  of  them  derived  ? 
What  class  of  words  do  prepositions 
nnd  conjugations  form  ;  and  to  express 


what  relations,  do  they  serve?  For 
connecting  what,  are  conjunctions 
ployed ;  and  what  examples  are  given  ? 
In  what  manner  do  prepositions  connect 
words  ;  and  what  examples  are  given 's 
When  was  the  force  of  these  spoken  of? 
From  what  is  it  evident  that  all  these 
connective  particles  must  be  of  the 
greatest  use  in  speech;  and,  therefore 
what  follows  ?  As  a  nation  improves  in 
science,  and  as  its  language  becomes 
more  perfect,  what  may  we  expect  ? 
Accordingly,  what  language  contains 
the  greatest  quantity  of  them  ;  and 
why  ?  On  what  does  much  of  the  beau- 
ty and  strength  of  every  language  de- 
pend ?  What  depends  on  the  rig]  it  or 
wrong  management  of  them  ?  Before 
he  dismisses  the  subject  of  language, 
what  observation  does  our  author  re- 
quest to  be  allowed  to  make ;  and 
why  ?  How  is  this  subject  illustrated  in 
a  quotation  from  Quintilian?  What 
subject  do  we  next  approach  ?  Of  the 
language  which  is  at  pre^nt  spoken 
throughout  Great  Britain,  what  is  ob- 
served? What  was  the  language  of 
the  first  inhabitants  of  the  island  1  Ol 
this  Celtic  tongue,  what  is  remarked, 
and  where  did  it  obtain  ?  Of  what 
countries  was  it  the  language ;  and  till 
what  period  ?  Where,  only,  does  it  now 
subsist?  What  evidence  have  we  o. 
this  ?  How  long  did  this  continue  to  be 
the  language  of  the  island  ? 

How  did  the  Saxons  treat  the  Bri- 
tons? Of  what  was  the  Saxon  tonirue 
a  lialect ;  and  of  what  did  it  lay  the 
foundation?  How  long  did  it  continue 
to  be  spoken  throughout  the  southern 
part  of  the  island?  What  language 
did  he  introduce  ?  Of  what,  then,  is  the 
English  which  is  now  spoken  a  mix- 
ture ?  What  language  is  spoken  in  the 
low  countries  of  Scotland  ?  For  what, 
can  we  not  easily  account  ?  What  are, 
still,  uncertain  and  contested  points? 
What  appears,  from  what  has  been 
said,  to  be  the  basis  of  our  present 
speech ;  and  how  has  it  been  imported 
among  us?  From  what  ancient  lan- 
guage are  many  of  our  words,  also, 
derived ;  and  how  did  we  receive  them  ? 
What  evidence  have  we  of  this  ?  With 
what  language  has  the  French  always 
continued  to  have  a  very  considerable 
affinity;  and  hence,  what  follows? 
From  the  influx  of  so  many  streams, 
what  naturally  follows?  What  -an 
I  we  not  expect   from  it  ?  Why  is  its 


LECT.  IX.] 


QUESTIONS. 


lot  b 


syntax  narrow?  What  remark  fol- 
lows ?  How  are  these  disadvantages, 
if  they  be  such,  balanced  ?  In  what 
subject  is  our  language  particularly 
copious  ?  How  has  tins  been  produced ? 
In  what  also  are  we  rich  ;  and  in  what 
does  it  differ  from  prose  ?  What  does 
this  show  ;  and  to  what  language  are 
we,  in  this  respect,  infinitely  superior  1 
Of  their  poetical  language,  what  is  re- 
marked? Where  does  our  language 
chiefly  display  its  power  of  expression  ? 
How  many  words  are  we  said  to  have 
to  denote  the  varieties  of  the  passion  of 
anger?  Repeat  them.  Where  is  our 
tongue  less  fertile  ?  In  what  does  the 
.French  tongue  surpass  ours  ?  How 
may  any  one  be  convinced  of  this? 
For  what  is  the  French,  of  all  lan- 
guages, the  most  copious;  and  for 
what  is  it  the  happiest  language  in  the 
world  ?  But  where  does  ours  excel  it  ? 
Whence  does  language  receive  its  pre- 
dominant feature?  What  must  we, 
however,  not  expect;  and  why?  What 
evidence,  however,  have  we  that  na- 
tional character  will  always  have  some 
influence  on  the  turn  of  language  ? 
From  the  genius  of  our  language,  what 
may  it  be  expected  to  have  ?  To  what 
is  its  prolixity  owing ;  and  what  is  its 
effect  ?  How  is  this  "illustrated  ?  Why 
may  our  language  still  be  esteemed  to 
possess  considerable  force  of  expression? 
Of  what  is  the  style  of  Milton  a  sufficient 
proof?  What  is  a  quality  of  great  im- 
portance in  speaking  or  writing ;  and 
on  what  thr-»,e  things  does  it  depend? 
What  tongue  most  eminently  possesses 
this  quality  ?  What  advantages  did  it 
possess?  What  is  the  character  of  the 
Latin  tongue  in  this  respect  ?  Of  the 
Italian  language,  what  is  remarked  ? 
By  considering  whose  style,  may  one 
be  convinced  that  our  language  is  not 
destitute  of  flexibility  ?  With  what  has 
our  language  been  most  taxed  ?  What 
alone  is  sufficient  to  prove  that  our  lan- 
guage is  not  unmusical  ?  Of  our  verse, 


what  is  remarked?  Wha'  ;ias  Mr.  She 
ridan,  in  his  lectures,  shown  ?  Of  ou* 
consonants,  what  does  he  observe ;  and 
why  ?  After  all,  what  must  be  admit- 
ted ?  To  what  do  we,  in  general,  in- 
cline ;  and  agreeably  to  this,  what  is  a 
remarkable  peculiarity  of  our  pronun- 
ciation? How  does  the  English  differ 
from  the  Greek  and  Latin  in  this  re- 
spect? What  is  the  general  effect  or 
this  practice  ?  What  peculiar  rsvnerty 
does  the  English  language  possess? 
Illustrate  this,  fully.  What  opinion  of 
Dr.  Lowth  is  here  introduced  ?  Why 
were  ancient  languages  an  object  ol 
art?  What  do  we  take  for  granted- 
and  hence,  what  follows  ?  For  what 
are  grammatical  rules  insufficient ;  and 
what  in  this  case  must  be  the  stan- 
dard ?  What  will  not  follow  from  this ; 
and  why  ?  Why  cannot  all  the  rules  of 
Latin  syntax  be  applied  to  our  lan- 
guage ?  But  what  is  always  to  be  re- 
membered; and  for  what  reason? 
How  is  this  fully  illustrated  ?  What  do 
these  exemplifications  show  ?  What 
remark  on  the  English  language  fol- 
lows? How  is  this  illustrated?  Who 
will  find  themselves  much  disappoint- 
ed? What  affords  a  sufficient  proof  that 
a  careful  study  of  the  language  is  re- 
quisite ? 


ANALYSIS. 

1.  Verbs. 

a.  Their  nature  and  importar 

b.  Tenses. 

c.  Voices. 

D.  Moods. 

E.  Conjugation. 

2.  Auxiliary  verbs. 

3.  Adverbs. 

4.  Prepositions. 

5.  Conjunctions. 

6.  The  origin  of  the.  English  language 

a.  Its  character. 

b.  Its  syntax. 


LECTUME   X, 


STYLE.— PERSPICUITY  AND  PRECISION 
Having  finished  the  subject  of  language,  I  now  enter  on  the  con- 
sideration of  style,  and  the  rules  that  relate  to  it. 

It  is  not  easy  to  give  a  precise  idea  of  what  is  meant  by  style. 
The  best  definition  I  can  give  of  it,  is,  the  peculiar  manner  in  which 


102  PERSPICUITY.  [lect.  x. 

a  man  expresses  his  conceptions,  by  means  of  language.  It  is  dif 
ferent  from  mere  language,  or  words.  The  words  which  an  author 
employs,  may  be  proper  and  faultless ;  and  his  style  may,  neverthe- 
less, have  great  faults:  it  may  be  dry,  or  stiff,  or  feeble,  or  affected. 
Style  has  always  some  reference  to  an  author's  manner  of  thinking. 
It  is  a  picture  of  the  ideas  which  arise  in  his  mind,  and  of  the  man- 
ner in  which  they  rise  there;  and  hence,  when  we  are  examining  an 
author's  composition,  it  is,  in  many  cases,  extremely  difficult  to  se- 
parate the  style  from  the  sentiment.  No  wonder  these  two  shculd 
be  so  intimately  connected,  as  style  is  nothing  else  than  that  sort  of 
expression  which  our  thoughts  most  readily  assume.  Hence,  differ- 
ent countries  have  been  noted  for  peculiaritiesof  style,  suited  to  their 
different  temper  and  genius.  The  eastern  nations  animated  their 
style  with  the  most  strong  and  hyperbolical  figures.  The  Athenians, 
a  polished  and  acute  people,  formed  a  style  accurate,  clear,  and  neat 
The  Asiatics,  gay  and  loose  in  their  manners,  affected  a  style  florid 
and  diffuse.  The  like  sort  of  characteristical  differences  are  com- 
monly remarked  in  the  style  of  the  French,  the  English,  and  the 
Spaniards.  In  giving  the  general  characters  of  style,  it  is  usual  to 
talk  of  a  nervous,  a  feeble,  or  a  spirited  style  ;  which  are  plainly  the 
characters  of  a  writer's  manner  of  thinking,  as  well  as  of  expressing 
himself:  so  difficult  it  is  to  separate  these  two  things  from  one 
another.  Of  the  general  characters  of  style,  I  am  afterwards  to  dis- 
course; but  it  will  be  necessary  to  begin  with  examining  the  more 
simple  qualities  of  it;  from  the  assemblage  of  which,  its  more  com 
plex  denominations,  in  a  great  measure, result. 

All  the  qualities  of  good  style  may  be  ranged  under  two  heads, 
perspicuity  and  ornament.  For  all  that  can  possibly  be  required  ol 
language  is,  to  convey  our  ideas  clearly  to  the  minds  of  others,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  in  such  a  dress,  as  by  pleasing  and  interesting  thein, 
shall  most  effectually  strengthen  the  impressions  which  we  seek  to 
make.  When  both  these  ends  are  answered,  we  certainly  accom- 
plish every  purpose  for  which  we  use  writing  and  discourse. 

Perspicuity,  it  will  be  readily  admitted,  is  the  fundamental  quality 
of  style;*  a  quality  so  essential  in  every  kind  of  writing,  tiiat  for 
the,  want  of  it,  nothing  can  atone.  Without  this,  the  richest  orna- 
ments of  style  only  glimmer  through  the  dark  ;  and  puzzle,  instead 
of  pleasing  the  reader.  This,  therefore,  must  be  our  first  object,  to 
make  our  meaning  clearly  and  fully  understood,  and  understood  with- 
out the  least  difficulty.  -Oratio,'  says  Quintilian,  'debet  negligen- 
ter  quoque  audientibus  esse  aperta  ;  ut  in  animum  audientis,  sicut 
sol  in  oculos,  etiamsi  in  eum  non  intendatur,  occurat.  Quare  non 
solum  ut  intelligere  possit,  sed  ne  omnino  possit  non  intelligere  cu 
randum.'t     If  we  are  obliged  to  follow  a  writer  with  much  care,  to 

*"  Nobis  prima  sit  virtus,  perspicuitas,  propria  verba,  rectus  ordo,  non.  in  longum 
dilata  conciusio  ;  nihil  neque  desit,  neque  superfluat." 

Qpintil.  lib.  viii. 

t  "  Discourse  ought  always  to  be  obvious,  even  to  the  most  careless  and  negligent 
hearer  :  so  that  the  sense  shall  strike  his  mind,  as  the  light  of  the  sun  does  our  eyes, 
though  they  are  not  directed  upwards  to  it.  We  must  study  not  only  that  every  hearer 
way  understand  us,  but  that  it  shall  be  impossible  for  him  not  to  understand  us." 


lect.  x.]  PERSPICUITY.  103 

pause,  and  to  read  over  his  sentences  a  second  time,  in  order  to 
comprehend  them  full}',  he  will  never  please  us  long  Mankind 
are  too  indolent  to  relish  so  much  labour.  They  may  pretend  to  ad- 
mire the  author's  depth,  after  they  have  discovered  his  meaning; 
but  they  will  seldom  be  inclined  to  take  up  his  work  a  second  time. 

Authors  sometimes  plead  the  difficulty  of  their  subject  as  an  ex- 
cuse for  the  want  of  perspicuity.  But  the  excuse  can  rarely,  if  ever, 
be  admitted.  For  whatever  a  man  conceives  clearly,  that,  it  is  in  hia 
power,  if  he  will  be  at  the  trouble,  to  put  into  distinct  propositions, 
or  to  express  clearly  to  others:  and  upon  no  subject  ought  any  man 
to  write,  where  he  cannot  think  clearly.  His  ideas,  indeed,  may, 
very  excusably,  be  on  some  subjects  incomplete  or  inadequate;  but 
still,  as  far  as  they  go,  they  ought  to  be  clear;  and  wherever  this  is 
the  case,  perspicuity  in  expressing  them  is  always  attainable.  The 
obscurity  which  reigns  so  much  among  many  metaphysical  writers, 
is,  for  the  most  part,  owing  to  the  indistinctness  of  their  own  con- 
ceptions. They  see  the  object  but  in  a  confused  light ;  and,  of 
course,can  never  exhibit  it  in  a  clear  one  to  others. 

Perspicuity  in  writing,  is  not  to  be  considered  as  merely  a  sort 
of  negative  virtue,  or  freedom  from  defect.  It  has  higher  merit  : 
It  is  a  degree  of  positive  beauty.  We  are  pleased  with  an  author, 
we  consider  him  as  deserving  praise,  who  'frees  us  from  all  fatigue 
of  searching  for  his  meaning;  wTho  carries  us  through  his  subject 
without  any  embarrassment  or  confusion  ;  whose  style  flows  always 
like  a  limpid  stream,  where  we  see  to  the  very  bottom. 

The  study  of  perspicuity  requires  attention,  first,  to  single  words 
and  phrases,  and  then  to  the  construction  of  sentences.  I  begin 
with  treating  of  the  first,  and  shall  confine  myself  to  it  in  this  lec- 
ture. 

Perspicuity,  considered  with  respect  to  words  and  phrases,  re 
quires  these  three  qualities  in  them,  purity ',  propriety ,  and  precision. 

Purity  and  propriety  of  language,  are  often  usecl  indiscriminately 
for  each  other  ;  and,  indeed,  they  are  very  nearly  allied.  A  distinc- 
tion, however,  obtains  between  them.  Purity  is  the  use  of  such 
words,  and  such  constructions,  as  belong  to  the  idiom  of  the  lan- 
guage which  we  speak  ;  in  opposition  to  words  and  phrases  that  are 
imported  from  other  languages,  or  that  are  obsolete,  or  new  coined, 
or  used  without  proper  authority.  Propriety  is  the  selection  ol 
such  words  in  the  language,  as  the  best  and  most  established  usage 
has  appropriated  to  those  ideas  which  we  intend  to  express  by  the*n. 
It  implies  the  correct  and  happy  application  of  them,  according  to 
that  usage,  in  opposition  to  vulgarisms  or  low  expressions ;  and  tc 
words  and  phrases,  which  would  be  less  significant  of  the  ideas  that 
we  mean  to  convey.  Style  may  be  pure,  that  is,  it  may  all  he  strict- 
ly English,  without  Scoticismsor  Gallicisms,  or  ungrammatical  irre- 
gular expressions  of  any  kind,  and  may,  nevertheless,  be  defioien 
m  propriety.  The  words  may  be  ill  chosen ;  not  adapted  to  the 
subject,  nor  fully  expressive  of*  the  author's  sense.  He  has  taken  all 
his  words  and  phrases  from  the  general  mass  of  English  language  ; 
Duthe  has  made  his  selection  among  these  words  unhappily.     Where- 


104  PRECISION  IN  STYLE.  [usct.  x. 

as,  style  cannot  be  proper  without  being  also  pure;  and  where  both 
purity  and  propriety  meet,  besides  making  style  perspicuous,  they 
also  render  it  graceful.  There  is  no  standard,  either  of  purity  or  oJ 
propriety,  but  the  practice  of  the  best  writers  and  speakers  in  the 
country. 

When  I  mentioned  obsolete  or  new  coined  words,  as  incongruous 
with  purity  of  style,  it  will  be  easily  understood,  that  some  excep- 
tions are  to  be  made.  On  certain  occasions,  they  may  have  grace. 
Poetry  admits  of  greater  latitude  than  prose,  with  respect  to  coin- 
ing, or,  at  least,  new  compounding  words;  yet,  even  here,  this  li- 
berty should  be  used  with  a  sparing  hand.  In  prose,  such  innova- 
tions are  more  hazardous,  and  have  a  worse  effect.  They  are  apt  to 
give  style  an  affected  and  conceited  air ;  and  should  never  be  ven 
tured  upon,  except  by  such,  whose  established  reputation  gives  them 
some  degree  of  dictatorial  power  over  language. 

The  introduction  of  foreign  and  learned  words,  unless  where  ne- 
cessity requires  them,  should  always  be  avoided.  Barren  languages 
may  need  such  assistances;  but  ours  is  not  one  of  these.  Dean 
Swift,  one  of  our  most  correct  writers,  valued  himself  much  on 
using  no  words  but  such  as  were  of  native  growth :  and  his  lan- 
guage may,  indeed,  be  considered  as  a  standard  of  the  strictest  pu- 
rity and  propriety,  in  the  choice  of  words.  At  present,  we  seem  to 
be  departing  from  this  standard.  A  multitude  of  Latin  words  have, 
of  late,  been  poured  in  upon  us.  On  some  occasions,  they  give  an 
appearance  of  elevation  and  dignity  to  style.  But  often,  also,  they 
render  it.  stiff  and  forced  :  and,  in  general,  a  plain,  native  style,  as 
it  is  more  intelligible  to  all  readers,  so,  by  a  proper  management  of 
words,  it  may  be  made  equally  strong  and  expressive  with  this  La- 
tinised English. 

Let  us  now  consider  the  import  of  precision  in  language,  which, 
as  it  is  the  highest  part  of  the  quality  denoted  by  perspicuity,  me* 
rits  a  full  explication ;  and  the  more,  because  distinct  ideas  are,  per- 
haps, not  commonly  formed  about  it 

The  exact  import  of  precision,  may  be  drawn  from  the  etymolo- 
gy of  the  word.  It  comes  from  '  praecidere,'  to  cut  off:  it  import 
retrenching  all  superfluities,  and  pruning  the  expression,  so  as  to  ex- 
hibit neither  more  nor  less  than  an  exact  copy  of  his  idea  who  uses 
it.  I  observed  before,  that  it  is  often  difficult  to  separate  the  quali- 
ties of  style  from  the  qualities  of  thought;  and  it  is  found  so  in  this 
instance.  For,  in  order  to  write  with  precision,  though  this  be  pro- 
perly a  quality  of  style,  one  must  possess  a  very  considerable  de- 
gree of  distinctness  and  accuracy  in  his  manner  of  thinking. 

The  words  which  a  man  uses  to  express  his  ideas,  may  be  faulty 
in  three  respects ;  they  may  either  not  express  that  idea  which  the 
author  intends,  but  some  other  which  only  resembles,  or  is  akin  to 
t ;  01 ,  they  may  express  that  idea,  but  not  quite  fully  and  complete- 
ly ;  or,  they  may  express  it,  together  with  something  more  than  he 
intends.  Precision  stands  opposed  to  all  these  three  faults  ;  but 
chiefly  to  the  last.  In  an  author's  writing  with  propriety,  his  being 
free  from  the  two  former  faults  seems  implied.  The  words  which  he 


lect.  x.]  PRECISION  IN  STYLE.  105 

uses  are  proper;  that  is,  they  express  that  idea  which  he  intends, 
and  they  express  it  fully;  but  to  be  precise,  signifies,  that  they  ex- 
press that  idea,  and  no  more.  There  is  nothing  in  his  words  which 
introduces  any  foreign  idea,  any  superfluous  unseasonable  accessory, 
so  as  to  mix  it  confusedly  with  the  principal  object,  and  thereby  to 
render  our  conception  of  that  object  loose  and  indistinct.  This  re- 
quires a  writer  to  have,  himself,  a  very  clear  apprehension  of  the  ob- 
ject he  means  to  present  to  us ;  to  have  laid  fast  hold  of  it  in  his 
mind  ;  and  never  to  waver  in  any  one  view  he  takes  of  it;  a  perfec 
tion  to  which,  indeed,  few  writers  attain. 

The  use  and  importance  of  precision,  may  be  deduced  from  the 
aature  of  the  human  mind.  It  never  can  view,  clearly  and  distinct- 
ly, above  one  object  at  a  time.  If  it  must  look  at  two  or  three  to- 
gether, especially  objects  among  which  there  is  resemblance  or  con- 
nexion, it  finds  itself  confused  and  embarrassed.  It  cannot  clearly 
perceive  in  what  they  agree,  and  in  what  they  differ.  Thus,  were 
any  object,  suppose  some  animal,  to  be  presented  to  me,  of  whose 
structure  I  wanted  to  form  a  distinct  notion,  I  would  desire  all  its 
trappings  to  be  taken  off,  I  would  require  it  to  be  brought  before  me 
by  itself,  and  to  stand  alone,  that  there  might  be  nothing  to  distract 
my  attention.  The  same  is  the  case  with  words.  If,  when  you  would 
inform  me  of  your  meaning,  you  also  tell  me  more  than  what  conveys 
it;  if  you  join  foreign  circumstances  to  the  principal  object;  if,  by 
unnecessarily  varying  the  expression,  you  shift  the  point  of  view, 
and  make  me  see  sometimes  the  object  itself,  and  sometimes  another 
thing  that  is  connected  with  it;  you  thereby  oblige  me  to  look  on 
several  objects  at  once,  and  I  lose  sight  of  the  principal.  You  load 
the  animal  you  are  showing  me,  with  so  many  trappings  and  collars, 
and  bring  so  many  of  the  same  species  before  me,  somewhat  resem- 
bling;, and  yet  somewhat  differing,  that  I  see  none  of  them  clearly 

This  forms  what  is  called  a  loose  style ;  and  is  the  proper  oppo- 
site to  precision.  It  generally  arises  from  using  a  superfluity  of 
words.  Feeble  writers  employ  a  multitude  of  words  to  make  them- 
selves understood,  as  they  think,  more  distinctly ;  and  they  onlv 
confound  the  reader.  They  are  sensible  of  not  having  caught  the 
precise  expression,  to  convey  what  they  would  signify;  they  do  not, 
indeed,  conceive  their  own  meaning  very  precisely  themselves;  and 
therefore  help  it  out,  as  they  can,  by  this  and  the  other  word,  which 
may,  as  they  suppose,  supply  the  defect,  and  bring  you  somewhat 
nearer  to  their  idea:  they  are  always  going  about  it,  and  about  it,, 
but  never  just  hit  the  thing.  The  image,  as  they  set  it  before  you,  is 
always  seen  double ;  and  no  double  image  is  d  istinct.  When  an  author 
tells  me  of  his  hero's  courage  in  the  day  of  battle,  the  expression  is 
precise,  and  I  understand  it  fully.  But  if,  from  the  desire  of  multi- 
plying words,  he  will  needs  praise  his  courage  and  fortitude;  at  the 
moment  he  joins  these  words  together,  my  idea  begins  to  waver. 
He  means  to  express  one  quality  more  strongly;  but  he  is,  in  truth 
expressing  two.  Courage  resists  danger ;  fortitude  supports  pain. 
The  occasion  of  exerting  each  of  these  qualities  is  different;  and 
(£  14 


106  PRECISION  IN  STYLE.  [lect.  x 

being  led  to  think  af  both  together,  when  only  one  of  them  should 
be  in  my  view,  my  view  is  rendered  unsteady,  and  my  conception  ol 
the  object  indistinct. 

From  what  I  have  said,  it  appears  that  an  author  may,  in  a  qualifi- 
ed sense,  be  perspicuous,  while  yet  he  is  far  from  being  precise. 
He  uses  proper  words,  and  proper  arrangement;  he  gives  you  the 
idea  as  clear  as  he  conceives  it  himself;  and  so  far  he  is  perspicu- 
ous: but  the  ideas  are  not  very  clear  in  his  own  mind;  they  are 
loose  and  general;  and,  therefore,  cannot  be  expressed  with  preci- 
sion. All  subjects  do  not  equally  require  precision.  It  is  sufficient, 
on  many  occasions,  that  we  have  a  general  view  of  the  meaning. 
The  subject,  perhaps,  is  of  the  known  and  familiar  kind;  and  we 
are  in  no  hazard  of  mistaking  the  sense  of  the  author,  though  every 
word  which  he  uses  be  not  precise  and  exact. 

Few  authors,  for  instance,  in  the  English  language,  are  more  cleai 
and  perspicuous,  on  the  whole,  than  Archbishop  Tiilotson,  and  Sir 
William  Temple;  yet  neither  of  them  are  remarkable  for  precision. 
They  are  loose  and  diffuse;  and  accustomed  to  express  their  mean 
rag  by  several  words,  which  show  you  fully  whereabouts  it  lies,  ra- 
ther than  to  single  out  those  expressions,  which  would  convey  clear- 
ly the  idea  which  they  have  in  view,  and  no  more.  Neither,  indeed, 
is  precision  the  prevailing  character  of  Mr.  Addison's  style ;  although 
he  is  not  so  deficient  in  this  respect  as  the  other  two  authors. 

Lord  Shaftesbury's  faults,  in  point  of  precision,  are  much  greater 
than  Mr.  Addison's;  and  the  more  unpardonable,  because  he  is  a 
professed  philosophical  writer  ;  who,  as  such,  ought,  above  all 
things,  to  have  studied  precision.  His  style  has  both  great  beauties 
and  great  faults;  and,on  the  whole,  is  by  no  means  a  safe  model  for 
imitation.  Lord  Shaftesbury  was  well  acquainted  with  the  power  of 
words  ;  those  which  he  employs  are  generally  proper  and  well 
sounding;  he  has  great  variety  of  them;  and  his  arrangement,  as 
shall  be  afterwards  shown,  is  commonly  beautiful.  His  defect,  in 
precision,  is  not  owing  so  much  to  indistinct  or  confused  ideas,  as  to 
perpetual  affectation.  He  is  fond,  to  excess,  of  the  pomp  and  pa- 
rade of  language;  he  is  never  satisfied  with  expressing  any  thing 
clearly  and  simply;  he  must  always  give  it  the  dress  of  state  and 
majesty.  Hence  perpetual  circumlocutions,  and  many  words  and 
phrases  employed  to  describe  somewhat,  that  would  have  been  de- 
scribed much  better  by  one  of  them.  If  he  has  occasion  to  men- 
tion any  person  or  author,  he  very  rarely  mentions  him  by  his  pro- 
per name.  In  the  treatise,  entitled,  Advice  to  an  Author,  he  des- 
cants for  two  or  three  pages  together  upon  Aristotle,  without  once 
naming  him  in  any  other  way,  than  the  master  critic,  the  mighty 
genius  and  judge  of  art,  the  prince  of  critics,  the  grand  mastei 
of  art,  and  consummate  philologist.  In  the  same  way,  the  grand 
poetic  sire,  the  philosophical  patriarch,  and  his  disciple  of  noble 
birth  and  lofty  genius,  are  the  only  names  by  which  he  conde- 
scends to  distinguish  Homer,  Socrates,  and  Plato,  in  another  pas- 
sage of  the  same  treatise.  This  method  of  distinguishing  persons 
is  extremely  affected;  but  it  is  not  so  contrary  to  precision,  as  thft 


Lett.  x.J  PRECISION  IN  STYLE.  j07 

frequent  circumlocutions  he  employs  for  ail  moral  ideas;  attentive, 
on  every  occasion,  more  to  the  pomp  of  language,  than  to  the  clear- 
ness which  he  ought  to  have  studied  as  a  philosopher.  The  moral 
sense,  for  instance,  after  he  had  once  defined  it,  was  a  clear  term ; 
but,  how  vague  becomes  the  idea,  when,  in  the  next  page,  he  calls 
it,  'That  natural  affection,  and  anticipating  fancy,  which  makes  the 
sense  of  right  and  wrong?'  Self  examination,  or  reflection  on  our 
own  conduct,  is  an  idea  conceived  with  ease ;  but  when  it  is  wrought 
into  all  the  forms  of  'A  man's  dividing  himself  into  two  parties, 
becoming  a  self-dialogist,  entering  into  partnership  with  himself, 
forming  the  dual  number  practically  within  himself;'  we  hardly 
know  what  to  make  of  it.  On  some  occasions,  he  so  adorns,  or  ra- 
ther loads  with  words,  the  plainest  and  simplest  propositions,  as,  if 
not  to  obscure,  at  least,  to  enfeeble  them. 

In  the  following  paragraph,  for  example,  of  the  inquiry  concern- 
ing virtue,  he  means  to  show,  that,  by  every  ill  action  we  hurt  our 
mind,  as  much  as  one  who  should  swallow  poison,  or  give  himself  a 
wound,  would  hurt  his  body.  Observe  what  a  redundancy  of  words 
he  pours  forth :  '  Now  if  the  fabric  of  the  mind  or  temper  appeared 
to  us  such  as  it  really  is;  if  we  saw  it  impossible  to  remove  hence 
any  one  good  or  orderly  affection,  or  to  introduce  any  ill  or  disor- 
derly one,  without  drawing  on,  in  some  degree,  that  dissolute  state 
which, at  its  height,  is  confessed  to  be  so  miserable;  it  would  men, 
mdoubtedly,  be  confessed,  that  since  no  ill,  immoral,  or  unjust  ac- 
tion, can  be  committed,  without  either  a  new  inroad  and  breach  on 
the  temper  and  passions,  or  a  further  advancing  of  that  execution 
already  done:  whoever  did  ill,  or  acted  in  prejudice  to  his  integrity, 
good  nature,  or  worth,  would,  of  necessity,  act  with  greater  cruelty 
towards  himself,  than  he  who  scrupled  not  to  swallow  what  was  poi 
sonous,  or  who,  with  his  own  hands, should  voluntarily  mangle  or 
wound  his  outward  form  or  constitution,  natural  limbs,  or  body.'* 
Here,  to  commit  a  bad  action,  is,  first,  'To  remove  a  good  and 
orderly  affection,  and  to  introduce  an  ill  or  disorderly  one ;'  next,  it 
is,  'To  commit  an  action  that  is  ill,  immoral,  and  unjust;'  and  in  the 
next  line,  it  is, '  To  do  ill,  or  to  act  in  prejudice  of  integrity,  good 
nature,  and  worth;'  nay,  so  very  simple  a  thing  as  a  man's  wound 
ing  himself,  is,  'To  mangle,  or  wound,  his  outward  form  or  consti 
tution,  his  natural  limbs  or  body.'  Such  superfluity  of  words  is  dis 
gustful  to  every  reader  of  correct  taste ;  and  serves  no  purpose  out 
to  embarrass  and  perplex  the  sense.  This  sort  of  style  is  elegantly 
described  by  Quintilian:  'Est  in  quibusdarn  turba  inanium  verbo- 
rum,  qui  dum  communem  loquendi  morem  reformidant,  ducti  specie 
nitorb,  circumeunt  omnia  copiosa  loquacitate  quce  dicere  volunVt 
Lib.  vii.  cap.  2. 

*  Characterise     Vol.  ii.  p.  85. 

1'^A  crowd  of  unmeaning  words  is  brought  together  by  some  authors,  who,  afraid  «< 
expressing  themselves  after  a  common  and  ordinary  manner,  and  allured  by  an  appear 
ance  of  splendour,  surround  every  tiling  which  they  mean  to  say  with  a  certain  copious 
oquacity." 


103  PRECISION  IN  STYLE.  [lect.  * 

The  great  source  of  a  loose  style,  in  opposition  to  precision,  is 
the  injudicious  use  of  those  words  termed  synonymous.  They  are 
called  synonymous,  because  they  agree  in  expressing  one  principal 
idea;  but,  for  the  most  part,  if  not  always,  they  express  it  with 
some  diversity  in  the  circumstances.  They  are  varied  by  some  ac- 
cessary idea  which  every  word  introduces,  and  which  forms  the  dis- 
tinction between  them.  Hardly,  in  any  language,  are  there  two 
words  that  convey  precisely  the  same  idea;  a  person  thoroughly 
conversant  in  the  propriety  of  the  language,  will  always  be  able  to 
observe  something  that  distinguishes  them.  As  they  are  like  differ- 
ent shades  of  the  same  colour,  an  accurate  writer  can  employ  them 
to  great  advantage,  by  using  them,  so  as  to  heighten  and  to  finish 
the  picture  which  he  gives  us.  He  supplies  by  one,  what  was  want- 
ing in  the  other,  to  the  force,  or  to  the  lustre  of  the  image  which 
he  means  to  exhibit.  But,  in  order  to  this  end,  he  must  be  ex- 
tremely attentive  to  the  choice  which  he  makes  of  them.  For  the 
bulk  of  writers  are  very  apt  to  confound  them  with  each  other;  and 
to  employ  them  carelessly,  merely  for  the  sake  of  filling  up  a  pe- 
riod, or  of  rounding  and  diversifying  the  language,  as  if  their  signifi- 
cation were  exactly  the  same,  while,  in  truth,  it  is  not.  Hence  a 
certain  mist  and  indistinctness  is  unwarily  thrown  over  style. 

In  the  Latin  language,  there  are  r.o  two  words  we  should  more 
readily  take  to  be  synonymous,  than  amare  and  diligere.  Cicero, 
however,  has  shown  us,  that  there  is  a  very  clear  distinction  betwixt 
them.  'Quid  ergo,'  says  he,  in  one  of  his  epistles,  'tibi  eommen- 
dem  eum  quern  tu  ipse  diligis?  Sed  tamen  ut  scires  eum  non  a  me 
diligi  solum,  verum  etiam  amari,  ob  earn  rem  tibi  haec  scribo.'* 
In  the  same  manner  tutus  and  sccurus,  are  words  which  we  should 
readily  confound;  yet  their  meaning  is  different.  Tutus,  signifies 
out  of  danger;  securus,  free  from  the  dread  of  it.  Seneca  has  ele- 
gantly marked  this  distinction;  'Tuta  scelera  esse  possunt,  secura 
non  possunt. 't  In  our  own  language,  very  many  instances  might  be 
given  of  a  difference  in  meaning  among  words  reputed  synonymous ; 
and,  as  the  subject  is  of  importance,  I  shall  now  point  out  some  of 
these.  The  instances  which  I  am  to  give,  may  themselves  be  of 
use;  and  they  will  serve  to  show  the  necessity  of  attending,  with 
care  and  strictness,  to  the  exact  import  of  words,  if  ever  we  would 
write  with  propriety  or  precision. 

.Austerity,  severity,  rigour.  Austerity,  relates  to  the  manner  of 
living;  severity,  of  thinking;  rigour,  of  punishing.  To  austerity, 
is  opposed  effeminacy;  to  severity,  relaxation;  to  rigour,  clemen- 
cy. A  hermit,  is  austere  in  his  life;  a  casuist,  severe  in  his  applica- 
tion of  religion  or  law;  a  judge,  rigorous  in  his  sentences. 

Custom,  habit.     Custom,  respects  the  action;  habit,  the  actor 
By  custom,  we  mean  the  frequent  repetition  of  the  same  act;  by 
habit,  the  effect  which  that  repetition  produces  on  the  mind  or  body. 
By  the  custom  of  walking  often  the  streets,  one  acquires  a  habit  of 
dleness. 


*  Afl   Famil.  1.  i3.  Ep.47.  t  Epis.  97 


ljbct.  x.j  PRECISION  IN  STYLE  109 

Surprised,  astonished,  amazed,  confounded.  I  am  surprised,  with 
tvhat  is  new  or  unexpected ;  I  am  astonished,  at  what  is  vast  or  great, 
I  am  amazed,  with  what  is  incomprehensible;  I  am  confounded,  bv 
That  is  shocking  or  terrible. 

Desist,  renounce,  quit,  leave  off.  Each  of  these  words  imply  some 
pursuit  or  object  relinquished ;  but  from  different  motives.  We 
desist,  from  the  difficulty  of  accomplishing.  We  renounce,  on  ac- 
count of  the  disagreeableness  of  the  object,  or  pursuit.  We  quit, 
for  the  sake  of  some  other  thing  which  interests  us  more;  and  we 
leave  off,  because  we  are  weary  of  the  design.  A  politician  desists 
from  his  designs,  when  he  finds  they  are  impracticable ;  he  renoun- 
ces the  court,  because  he  has  been  affronted  by  it;  he  quits  ambition 
for  study  or  retirement;  and  leaves  off  his  attendance  on  the  great, 
as  he  becomes  old  and  weary  of  it. 

Pride,  vanity.  Pride,  makes  us  esteem  ourselves ;  vanity,  makes 
as  desire  the  esteem  of  others.  It  is  just  to  say,  as  Dean  Swift  has 
done,  that  a  man  is  too  proud  to  be  vain. 

Haughtiness,  disdain.   Haughtiness,  is  founded  on  the  high  opin 
ion  we  entertain  of  ourselves ;  disdain,  on  the  low  opinion  we  have 
of  others. 

To  distinguish,  to  separate.  We  distinguish,  what  we  want  not 
to  confound  with  another  thing ;  we  separate,  what  we  wantto  remove 
from  it.  Objects  are  distinguished  from  one  another,  by  their  qual- 
ities.    They  are  separated,  by  the  distance  of  time  or  place. 

To  weary,  to  fatigue.  The  continuance  of  the  same  thing  wea- 
ries us ;  labour  fatigues  us.  I  am  weaiy  with  standing ;  I  am  fatigued 
with  walking.  A  suitor  wearies  us  by  his  perseverance ;  fatigues  us 
by  his  importunity. 

To  abhor,  to  detest.  To  abhor,  imports,  simply,  strong  dislike ;  to 
detest,  imports  aLo  strong  disapprobation.  One  abhors  being  in 
debt;  he  detests  treachery. 

To  invent,  to  discover.  We  invent  things  that  are  new;  we  dis- 
cover what  was  before  hidden.  Galileo  Invented  the  telescope;  Har- 
vey discovered  the  circulation  of  the  blood. 

Only,  alone.  Only,  imports  that  there  is  no  other  of  the  same 
kind;  alone,  imports  being  accompanied  by  no  other.  An  only 
child,  is  one  who  has  neither  brother  nor  sister ;  a  child  alone,  is 
one  who  is  left  by  itself.  There  is  a  difference,  therefore,  in  precise 
language,  betwixt  these  two  phrases,  'virtue  only  makes  us  happy;' 
and  '  virtue  alone  makes  us  happy.'  Virtue  only  makes  us  happy, 
imports,  that  nothing  else  can  do  it.  Virtue  alone  makes  us  happy, 
imports,  that  virtue,  by  itself,  or  unaccompanied  with  other  advanta- 
ges, is  sufficient  to  do  it. 

Entire,  complete.  A  thing  is  entire,  by  wanting  none  of  its  parts , 
complete,  by  wanting  none  of  the  appendages  that  belong  to  it.  A 
man  may  have  an  entire  house  to  himself;  and  yet  not  have  one 
complete  apartment. 

Tranquillity , peace,  calm.  Tranquillity,  respects  a  situation  free 
from  trouble,  considered  in  itself;  peace,  the  same  situation  with 
resnect  to  any  causes  that  might  interrupt  it;  calm,  with  regard  to 


110  PRECISION  jN  STYLE.  [lect.  x. 

a  disturbed  situation  going  before,  or  following  it.  A  cood  man 
enjoys  tranquillity  in  himself;  peace,  with  others;  and  calm,  after 
the  storm. 

A  difficulty,  an  obstacle.  A  difficulty,  embarrasses ;  an  obstacle, 
stops  us.  We  remove  the  one;  we  surmount  the  other.  Generally, 
the  first  expresses  somewhat  arising  from  the  nature  and  circum- 
stances of  the  affair  ;  the  second,  somewhat  arising  from  a  foreign 
cause.  Philip  found  difficulty  in  managing  the  Athenians  from  the 
nature  of  their  dispositions;  but  the  eloquence  of  Demosthenes  was 
the  greatest  obstacle  to  his  designs. 

fVisdom,  prudence.  Wisdom,  leads  us  to  speak  and  act  what  is 
most  proper.  Prudence,  prevents  our  speaking  or  acting  impro- 
perly. A  wise  man  emplo)rs  the  most  proper  means  for  success; 
a  prudent  man,  the  safest  means  for  not  being  brought  into  danger. 

Enough,  sufficient.     Enough,  relates  to  the  quantity  which  one 
wishes  to  have  of  any  thing.     Sufficient,  relates  to  the  use  that  is  to 
be  made  of  it.     Hence,  enough,  generally  imports  a  greater  quan- 
tity than  sufficient  does.     The  covetous  man  never  has  enough 
although  he  has  what  is  sufficient  for  nature. 

To  avow,  to  acknowledge,  to  confess.  Each  of  these  words  im 
ports  the  affirmation  of  a  fact,  but  in  very  different  circumstances.  Tc 
avow,  supposes  the  person  to  glory  in  it;  to  acknowledge,  supposes 
a  small  degree  of  faultiness,  which  the  acknowledgment  compen- 
sates; to  confess,  supposes  a  higher  degree  of  crime.  A  patriot 
avows  his  opposition  to  a  bad  minister,  and  is  applauded;  a  gentle- 
man acknowledges  his  mistake,  and  is  forgiven  ;  a  prisoner  confesses 
the  crime  he  is  accused  of,  and  is  punished. 

To  remark,  to  observe.  We  remark  in  the  way  of  attention,  in  or- 
der to  remember;  we  observe,  in  the  way  of  examination,  in  order 
to  judge.  A  traveller  remarks  the  most  striking  objects  he  sees ;  a 
general  observes  all  the  motions  of  his  enemy. 

Equivocal,  ambiguous.  An  equivocal  expression  is,  one  which 
has  one  sense  open,  and  designed  to  be  understood;  another  sense 
concealed,  and  understood  only  by  the  person  who  uses  it.  An  am- 
biguous expression  is,  one  which  has  apparently  two  senses,  and 
leaves  us  at  a  loss  which  of  them  to  give  it.  An  equivocal  expres- 
sion is  used  with  an  intention  to  deceive;  an  ambiguous  one,  when 
it  is  used  with  design,  is,  with  an  intention  not  to  give  full  informa- 
tion. An  honest  man  will  never  employ  an  equivocal  expression ;  a 
confused  man  may  often  utter  ambiguous  ones,  without  any  design. 
I  shall  only  give  one  instance  more. 

With,  by.  Both  these  particles  express  the  connexion  between 
some  instrument,  or  means  of  effecting  an  end,  and  the  agent  who 
employs  it;  but  with,  expresses  a  more  close  and  immediate  connex 
ion;  by,  a  more  remote  one.  We  kill  a  man  with  a  sword;  he 
dies  by  violence.  The  criminal  is  bound  with  ropes  by  the  execu- 
tioner. The  proper  distinction  in  the  use  of  these  particles,  is  ele 
garitly  marked  in  a  passage  of  Dr.  Robertson's  History  of  Scotland. 
When  one  of  the  old  Scottish  kings  was  making  an  inquiry  into  the 
tenure  by  whi.sh  his  nobles  held  their  lands,  they  started  up,  and  drew 


lect.  x.]  PRECISION  IN  STYLE.  Ill 

their  swords:  ' By  these,'  said  they,  'we  acquired  our  lands,  and 
with  these  we  will  defend  them.'  '  By  these  we  acquired  our  lands ;' 
signifies  the  more  remote  means  of  acquisition  by  force  and  martial 
deeds;  and,  'with  these  we  will  defend  them ;'  signifies  the  imme- 
diate direct  instrument,  the  sword  which  they  would  employ  in  theii 
defence. 

These  are  instances  of  words,  in  our  language,  which  by  careless 
writers,  are  apt  to  be  employed  as  perfectly  synonymous,  and  yet 
are  not  so.  Their  significations  approach,  but  are  not  precisely  the 
same.  The  more  the  distinction  in  the  meaning  of  such  words  is 
weighed,  and  attended  to,  the  more  clearly  and  forcibly  shall  we 
speak  or  write.* 

From  all  that  has  been  said  on  this  head,  it  will  now  appear,  that. 
in  order  to  write  or  speak  with  precision,  two  things  are  especially 
requisite:  one,  that  an  author's  own  ideas  be  clear  and  distinct;  and 
the  other,  that  we  have  an  exact  and  full  comprehension  of  the  force 
of  those  words  which  he  employs.  Natural  genius  is  here  required  ; 
labour  and  attention  still  more.  Dean  Swift  is  one  of  the  authors, 
in  our  language,  most  distinguished  for  precision  of  style.  In  his 
writings,  we  seldom  or  never  find  vague  expressions  and  synony- 
mous words  carelessly  thrown  together.  His  meaning  is  always  clear, 
and  strongly  marked. 

I  had  occasion  to  observe  before,  that  though  all  subjects  of  writ- 
ing or  discourse  demand  perspicuity,  yet  all  do  not  require  the  same 
degree  of  that  exact  precision  which  I  have  endeavoured  to  explain. 
It  is,  indeed,  in  every  sort  of  writing,  a  great  beauty  to  have,  at 
least,  some  mersure  of  precision,  in  distinction  from  that  loose 
profusion  of  words  which  imprints  no  clear  idea  on  the  reader's 
mind.  But  we  must,  at  the  same  time,  be  on  our  guard,  lest  too 
great  a  study  of  precision,  especially  in  subjects  where  it  is  not 
strictly  requisite,  betray  us  into  a  dry  and  barren  style;  lest,  from 
the  desire  of  pruning  too  closely,  we  retrench  all  copiousness  and 
ornament.  Some  degree  of  this  failing  may,  perhaps,  be  remark- 
ed in  Dean  Swift's  serious  works.  Attentive  only  to  exhibit  his 
ideas  clear  and  exact,  resting  wholly  on  his  sense  and  distinctness, 
he  appears  to  reject,  disdainfully,  all  embellishment,  which,  on 
some  occasions,  may  be  thought  to  render  his  manner  somewhat 
hard  and  dry.  To  unite  copiousness  and  precision,  to  be  flowing 
ind  graceful,  and  at  the  same  time  correct  and  exact  in  the  choice 
of  every  word,  is,  no  doubt,  one  of  the  highest  and  most  difficult 

*  In  French  there  is  a  very  useful  treatise  on  the  subject,  the  Abbe  Girard's  Syno- 
nymcs  Francoises,  in  which  he  has  made  a  large  collection  of  such  apparent  synonymes 
in  the  language,  and  shown,  with  much  accuracy,  the  difference  in  their  signification. 
It  is  much  to  be  wished,  that  some  such  work  were  undertaken  for  our  tongue,  and 
executed  with  erjual  taste  and  judgment.  Nothing  woidd  contribute  more  to  precise  and 
elegant  writing.  In  the  mean  time,  this  French  Treatise  may  be  perused  with  con 
sidcrable  profit.  It  will  accustom  persons  to  weigh,  with  attention,  the  force  oi 
words;  and  will  suggest  several  distinctions  betwixt  synonymous  terms  in  our  own 
language,  analogous  to  those  which  he  has  pointed  out  in  the  French;  and,  according*' 
Iv  several  o**tlie  instances  above  given,  were  suggested  by  the  work  of  this  author. 


12 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  x 


attainments  in  writing.  Some  kinds  of  composition  may  require 
more  of  copiousness  and  ornament ;  others,  more  of  precision  and 
accuracy ;  nay,  in  the  same  composition,  the  different  parts  of  it 
may  demand  a  proper  variation  of  manner.  But  we  must  study 
never  to  sacrifice,  totally,  any  Oiie  of  these  qualities  to  the  other ; 
and  by  a  proper  management,  both  of  them  may  be  made  fully  con- 
sistent, if  our  own  ideas  be  precise,  and  our  knowledge  and  stock 
of  words  be,  at  the  same  time,  extensive. 


QUESTIONS. 


Wiiat  is  the  next  subject  of  consi- 
deration ?  What  is  the  best  di  finition 
that  can  be  given  of  it  ?  How  dees  it 
differ  from  mere  language,  or  words? 
To  what  has  k  always  some  reference? 
Of  what  is  it  a  picture;  and  hence, 
what  follows?  Why  is  it  no  wonder 
that  these  two  should  be  so  intimately 
connected ;  and  for  what  have  different 
countries  consequently  been  noted? 
With  what  did  the  eastern  nations  ani- 
mate their  style  ?  Of  the  Athenians, 
and  their  style ;  and  of  the  Asiatics, 
and  theirs,  what  is  remarked?  In  what 
modern  languages  are  the  same  cha- 
racteristical  differences  to  be  seen  ?  In 
giving  the  general  characters  of  style, 
of  what  is  it  usual  to  talk ;  and  what 
are  they  ?  As  our  author  is  afterwards 
to  discourse  of  the  general  characters 
of  style,  with  what  is  it  necessary  to 
begin  ?  Under  what  two  heads  may 
the  qualities  of  a  good  style  be  ranged ; 
and  why  ?  When  both  these  ends  are 
answered,  what  is  accomplished?  What 
will  be  admitted  to  be  the  fundamental 
quality  of  style;  and  what  is  said  of 
it  ?  What,  therefore,  must  be  our  first 
object  ?  What  writers  will  fail  to  please 
us  long  ;  and  why?  What  do  authors, 
sometimes,  plead  as  an  excuse  for  wTant 
of  perspicuity?  Why  can  this  excuse 
rarely,  if  ever,  be  admitted  ?  When  is 
perspicuity,  in  expressing  our  ideas, 
always  attainable  ?  To  what  is  the 
obscurity  which  so  generally  reigns 
among  metaphysical  writers,  to  be  at- 
tributed ?  In  what  manner  do  they  see 
objects  ;  and  what  is  the  consequence  ? 
How  is  perspicuity  to  be  considered  ? 
With  an  author  of  what  description  are 
we  pleased  ?  In  what  two  particulars 
does  the  study  of  perspicuity  require 


attention?  When  considered  with  re- 
spect to  words  and  phrases,  what  three 
qualities  does  perspicuity  require?  Of 
purity  and  propriety  of  language  wha* 
is  observed  ?  How  are  they  distinguish- 
ed ?  What  does  propriety  imply  ?  How 
may  style  be  pure,  and  at  the  same 
time  be  deficient  in  propriety  ?  But  as 
style  cannot  be  proper  without  being 
pure  ako,  what  follows  ?  What  is  the 
only  standard  of  purity  and  propriety? 
Of  the  use  of  obsolete,  or  new  coined 
words,  what  is  remarked  ?  In  the  use 
of  them,  where  is  the  greatest  latitude 
admitted ;  and  how  must  tliis  liberty 
be  used?  What  effect  are  they  apt  to 
sjive  to  style,  in  prose?  Of  the  introduc- 
tion of  foreign  or  learned  words,  what 
is  observed?  Where  may  such  assist- 
ance be  needed?  On  what  did  Dean 
Swift  value  himself;  and  of  his  lan- 
guage, what  is  remarked?  What  is 
the  present  state  of  ou  language  ?  A 
multitude  of  what  words  have  of  late 
been  poured  in  upon  us ;  and  what  is 
their  effect?  What  remark  follows? 
what  shall  we  next  consider ;  and  why? 
Whence  may  the  exact  import  of  pre- 
cision be  drawn ;  and  what  does  it  im- 
port ?  What  was  before  observed  ;  and 
why  ?  In  what  three  respects,  may  the 
words  which  a  man  uses  to  express  his 
ideas,  be  faulty  ?  To  which  of  the  three 
does  precision  chiefly  stand  opposed  ? 
When  an  author  writes  with  propriety, 
why  does  his  being  free  from  the  two 
former  faults  seem  implied  ?  But,  to  be 
precise,  sig-mfies  what?  What  is  not 
found  in  his  words?  What  does  this 
require?  From  what  may  the  use  and 
importance  of  precision  be  deduced  ? 
WThy  can  it  not,  clearly  and  distinctly, 
view  more  than  one  object  at  a  time  * 


LECT.  X.] 


QUESTIONS 


112  a 


How  is  this  illustrated  ?  How  is  the  re- 
mark, that  the  same  is  the  case  with 
words,  illustrated?  What  does  this 
ibrm ,  and  to  what  is  it  the  proper  op- 
posite? From  what  does  it  generally 
arise?  Of  feeble  writers,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  Of  what  are  they  sensible  ? 
What  do  they  not  distinctly  conceive ; 
anC  what  is  the  consequence  ?  How  is 
the  image  as  they  set  it  before  you  al- 
ways seen  ?  How  is  this  illustrated  in 
the  use  of  the  words  courage  and  for- 
titude ;  and  what  is  the  difference  be- 
tween them?  Repeat  the  succeeding 
remark.  From  what  has  been  said, 
what  appears  ?  How  is  this  remark  il- 
lustrated ?  All  subjects,  not  equally  re- 
quiring precision,  what,  on  some  occa- 
sions, is  sufficient;  and  why?  Of  the 
style  of  Archbishop  Tillotson,  Sir  Wil- 
liam Temple,  and  Mr.  Addison,  what  is 
remarked  ? 

Of  Lord  Shaftesbury's  faultsj  in 
point  of  precision,  what  is  observed; 
and  why  is  this,  in  him,  the  more  un- 
pardonable? What  is  the  quality  of 
Ins  style?  With  what  was  he  well 
acquainted ;  and  of  those  which  he  em- 
ploys, what  is  observed  ?  To  what  are 
his  defects  in  precision  to  be  attribu- 
ted ?  Of  what  is  he  excessively  fond ; 
and  with  what  is  he  never  satisfied  ? 
Hence,  what  follows  ?  If  he  has  occa- 
sion to  mention  any  person,  or  author, 
in  what  manner  does  he  do  it  ?  How  is 
this  remark  illustrated  ?  Of  this  method 
of  distinguishing  persons,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  But  it  is  not  so  contrary  to  pre- 
cision as  what  ?  What  illustrations  fol- 
low ?  On  some  occasions,  to  what  ex- 
tent does  he  carry  this  affectation?  In 
the  following  paragraph  of  the  inquiry 
concerning  virtue,  what  does  he  mean 
to  show  ?  Repeat  the  paragraph ;  and 
also  the  remarks  upon  it  ?  Of  such  su- 
perfluity of  words,  what  is  observed  ? 
Repeat  Qumtilian's  description  of  this 
sort  of  style  ?  What  is  the  great  source 
of  a  loose  style  ?  Why  are  they  called  sy- 
nonymous? How  are  they  varied  1  What 
will  we  hardly  find  in  any  language  ? 
Why,  and  how,  may  an  accurate  writer 
always  employ  them  to  great  advan- 
tage ?  But,  in  order  to  this  end,  to  what 
must  he  be  extremely  attentive;  and 
why?  Hence,  what  is  thrown  over 
style?  Of  synonymous  words  in  the 
Latin  language,  what  is  remarked; 
and  what  instances  are  given  ?  In  our 

R 


own  language,  what  might  be  given  1 
Of  the  instances  which  our  author  is  to 
give,  what  does  he  observe  ?  What  is 
the  difference  between  austerity,  se 
verity,  and  rigour;  what  is  opposed  to 
each ;  and  what  examples  of  illustra- 
tion are  given?  What  is  the  difference 
between  custom  and  habit  ?  By  them 
respectively,  what  do  we  mean ;  and 
what  illustration  follows  ?  What  is  the 
difference  between  surprised,  asto- 
nished, amazed,  and  confounded? 
What  do  desist,  renounce,  quit,  and 
leave  off,  respectively  imply ;  and  how 
is  this  illustrated?  What  is  the  diffe- 
rence between  pride  and  vanity ;  and 
what  illustration  is  given  ?  On  what 
are  haughtiness  and  disdain  respec- 
tively founded  ?  What  is  the  difference 
between  to  distinguish,  and  to  sepa- 
rate ;  and  how  is  this  difference  illus- 
trated ?  How  is  the  difference  between 
to  weary,  and  to  fatigue,  illustrated  ? 
What  do  to  abhor,  and  to  detest,  re- 
spectively import;  and  what  illustra- 
tion is  given  ?  What  is  the  difference 
between  to  invent,  and  to  discover; 
and  what  illustration  is  given  ?  What 
do  only  and  alone  respectively  import ; 
and  by  what  examples  is  this  difference 
illustrated  ?  There  is,  therefore,  a  diffe- 
rence in  precise  language  betwixt  what 
two  phrases ;  and  what  do  they  respec- 
tively import?  What  is  the  difference 
between  entire  and  complete  •  and 
what  illustration  follows?  What  do 
tranquillity,  peace,  and  calm,  respec- 
tively respect ;  and  by  what  example 
is  this  illustrated  ?  How  are  a  difficulty 
and  an  obstacle  distinguished ;  and  by 
what  example  is  this  illustrated?  What 
is  the  difference  between  wisdom  and 
prudence;  and  by  what  sentence  is 
this  difference  illustrated  ?  To  what  do 
enough,  and  sufficiently,  respectively 
relate  ?  Hence,  what  follows ;  and 
what  example  is  given?  What  do  to 
avow,  to  acknowledge,  and  to  confess, 
respectively  suppose  :  sr<d  what  illus- 
trations are  given  ?  Wha;  *  *he  differ- 
ence between  to  r em-ark  &ia  :a  ob- 
serve ;  and  what  illustration  is  given  ? 
Distinguish  ambiguous  and  equivocal 
fully ;  and  ffive  the  examples  of  illus- 
tration. What  connexion  is  expressed 
by  the  particles  with  and  by;  and  wha» 
illustration  follows?  Repeat  Dr.  Ro- 
bertson's elegant  distinction  of  these 
particles,  with  the  signification  of  eac:- 


112  b 


STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.        [lect.  xi. 


Of  the  words  thus  given,  what  is  re- 
marked? From  what  has  been  said, 
what  will  now  appear;  and  what  are 
they  ?  What  is  here  required  ;  and  of 
the  Avritings  of  Dean  Swift,  what  is  ob- 
served? To  observe  what,  had  our 
author  before  occasion?  What,  in  every 
sort  of  writing,  is  a  great  beauty  ?  But 
against  what  must  we  be  on  our  guard? 
To  what  only  was  Dean  Swift  atten- 
tive ?  What  is  the  highest  attainment 
in  writing  ?  What  may  different  kinds 
of  composition  require ;  but  what  must 
we  study  never  to  sacrifice  ? 


ANALYSIS. 

Style. 

1.  The  definition  of  style. 

A.  Variations  of  style  in  diffe- 
rent nations. 

2.  Perspicuity. 

A.  Purity. 

B.  Propriety. 
c.  Precision. 

a.  A  loose  style. 

b.  Instances  of  deficiency 

in  precision. 

3.  Synonymous  words. 

4.  Concluding  remarks. 


LECTURE  XI. 


STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES. 

Having  begun  to  treat  of  style,  in  the  last  lecture  I  considered 
its  fundamental  quality,  perspicuity.  What  I  have  said  of  this,  relates 
chiefly  to  the  choice  of  words.  From  words  I  proceed  to  sentences ; 
and  as,  in  all  writing  and  discourse,  the  proper  composition  and 
structure  of  sentences  is  of  the  highest  importance,  I  shall  treat  of 
this  fully.  Though  perspicuity  be  the  general  head  under  which  I, 
at  present,  consider  language,  I  shall  not  confine  myself  to  this 
quality  alone,  in  sentences,  but  shall  inquire  also,  what  is  requisite 
for  their  grace  and  beauty :  that  I  may  bring  together,  under  one 
view,  all  that  seems  necessary  to  be  attended  to  in  the  construction 
and  arrangement  of  words  in  a  sentence. 

It  is  not  easy  to  give  an  exact  definition  of  a  sentence,  or  period, 
farther,  than  as  it  always  implies  some  one  complete  proposition  or 
enunciation  of  thought.    Aristotle's  definition  is,  in  the  main,  a  good 

One  '         At^ij  f^KCa  ap%T]V  Kai  TtKcuTrjv  KotO*  avrrjv^  Kai  y.tytOoi  cvovvoittov  :     A.     I Orm    of 

speech  which  hath  a  beginning  and  an  end  within  itself,  and  is  of 
such  a  length  as  to  be  easily  comprehended  at  once."  This,  how- 
ever, admits  of  great  latitude.  For  a  sentence,  or  period,  consists 
always  of  component  parts,  which  are  called  its  members ;  and  as 
these  members  may  be  either  few  or  many,  and  may  be  connected 
in  several  different  ways,  the  same  thought,  or  mental  proposition, 
may  often  be  either  brought  into  one  sentence,  or  split  into  two  or 
three,  without  the  material  breach  of  any  rule. 

The  first  variety  that  occurs  in  the  consideration  of  sentences,  is, 
the  distinction  of  long  and  short  ones.  The  precise  length  of  sen- 
tences, as  to  the  number  of  words,  or  the  number  of  members, 
which  may  enter  into  them,  cannot  be  ascertained  by  any  definite 
measure.  At  the  same  time  it  is  obvious,  there  may  be  an  extreme 
on  either  side.  Sentences  immoderately  long,  and  consisting  of  too 
many  members,  always  transgress  some  one  or  other  of  the  rules 
which  I  shall  mention  soon,  as  necessary  to  be  observed  in  every  good 
sentence.  In  discourses  that  are  to  be  spoken,  regard  must  be  had  to 
the  easiness  of  pronunciation,  which  is  not  consistent  with  too  long 
periods.     In  compositions  where  pronunciation  has  no  place,  stil£ 


lkct.  xi.]        STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.  113 

however,  by  using  long  periods  too  frequently,  an  author  overloads 
the  reader's  ear,  and  fatigues  his  attention.  For  long  periods  require, 
evidently,  more  attention  than  short  ones,  in  order  to  perceive 
clearly  the  connexion  of  the  several  parts,  and  to  take  in  the  whole 
at  one  view.  At  the  same  time,  there  may  be  an  excess  in  too 
many  short  sentences  also;  by  which  the  sense  is  split  and  broken 
the  connexion  of  thought  weakened,  and  the  memory  burdened  b} 
presenting  to  it  a  long  succession  of  minute  objects. 

With  regard  to  the  length  and  construction  of  sentences,  thv. 
French  critics  make  a  very  just  distinction  of  style,  into  style 
periodique  and  style  coupe.  The  style  periodique  is  where  the  sen- 
tences are  composed  of  several  members  linked  together,  and  hang- 
ing upon  one  another;  so  that  the  sense  of  the  whole  is  not  brought 
out  till  the  close.  This  is  the  most  pompous,  musical,  and  orato- 
rical manner  of  composing ;  as  in  the  following  sentence  of  Sir 
AVilliam  Temple :  '  If  you  look  about  you,  and  consider  the  lives  of 
otheisas  well  as  your  own;  if  you  think  how  few  are  born  with  ho- 
nour, and  how  many  die  without  name  or  children;  how  little  beauty 
we  see,  and  how  few  friends  we  hear  of;  how  many  diseases,  and  how 
much  poverty  there  is  in  the  world ;  you  will  fall  down  upon  your 
knees,  and,  instead  of  repining  at  one  affliction,  will  admire  so  many 
blessings  which  you  have  received  from  the  hand  of  God.'  (Letter 
to  Lady  Essex.)  Cicero  abounds  with  sentences  constructed  after 
this  manner. 

The  style  coupe  is,  where  the  sense  is  formed  into  short  inde- 
pendent propositions,  each  complete  within  itself;  as  in  the  follow- 
ing of  Mr.  Pope:  'I  confess  it  was  want  of  consideration  that  made 
me  an  author.  I  writj  because  it  amused  me.  I  corrected,  because 
it  was  as  pleasant  to  me  to  correct  as  to  write.  I  published,  because 
I  was  told,  I  might  please  such  as  it  was  a  credit  to  please.'  (Pre- 
face to  his  works.)  This  is  very  much  the  French  method  of  wri- 
ting; and  always  suits  gay  and  easy  subjects.  The  style  perio- 
dique, gives  an  air  of  gravity  and  dignity  to  composition.  The  style 
coupe,  is  more  lively  and  striking.  According  to  the  nature  of  the 
composition,  therefore,  and  the  general  character  it  ought  to  bear,  the 
one  or  other  may  be  predominant.  But  in  almost  every  kind  ol 
composition,  the  great  rule  is  to  intermix  them.  For  the  ear  tires 
of  either  of  them  when  too  long  continued :  whereas,  by  a  proper 
mixture  of  long  and  short  periods,  the  ear  is  gratified,  and  a  cer- 
tain sprightliness  is  joined  with  majesty  in  our  style.  <Non  semper,' 
says  Cicero,  (describing  very  expressively,  these  two  different  kinds 
of  styles,  of  which  I  have  been  speaking,)  '  non  semper  utendum  est 
perpetuitate,  et  quasi  conversion  z  verborum ;  sed  saepe  carpenda  mem- 
bris  minutioribus  oratio  est.'* 

This  variety  is  of  so  great  consequence,  that  it  must  be  studied 
not  only  in  the  succession  of  long  and  short  sentences,  but  in  the 
structure  of  our  sentences  also.     A  train  of  sentences,  constructed 

*  "  It  is  wit  proper  always  to  employ  a  continued  train,  and  a  sort  of  regular  com 
pass  of  phrases;  but  style  ought  to  be  often  broken  down  into  smauVv  members  " 

15 


114  STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.  [lect.  xi 

in  the  same  manner,  and  with  the  same  number  of  members,  whe- 
ther long  or  short,  should  never  be  allowed  to  succeed  one  another. 
However  musical  each  of  them  may  be,  it  has  a  better  effect  to  in- 
troduce even  a  discord,  than  to  cloy  the  ear  with  the  repetition  of 
similiar  sounds :  for,  nothing  is  so  tiresome  as  perpetual  uniformity. 
In  this  article  of  the  construction  and  distribution  of  his  sentences, 
Lord  Shaftesbury  has  shown  great  art.  In  the  last  lecture,  I  observ- 
ed, that  he  is  often  guilty  of  sacrificing  precision  of  style  to  pomp 
of  expression ;  and  that  there  runs  through  his  whole  manner,  a 
stiffness  and  affectation,  which  render  him  very  unfit  to  be  con- 
sidered as  a  general  model.  But  as  his  ear  was  fine,  and  as  he  was 
extremel}r  attentive  to  every  thing  that  is  elegant,  he  has  studied  the 
proper  intermixture  of  long  and  short  sentences,  with  variety  and 
harmony  in  their  structure,  more  than  any  other  Engush  author; 
and  for  this  part  of  composition  he  deserves  attention. 

From  these  general  observations,  let  us  now  descend  to  a  more 
particular  consideration  of  the  qualities  that  are  required  to  make  a 
sentence  perfect.  So  much  depends  upon  the  proper  construction  of 
sentences,  that,  in  every  sort  of  composition,  we  cannot  be  too 
strict  in  our  attentions  to  it.  For,  be  the  subject  what  it  will,  if  the 
sentences  be  constructed  in  a  clumsy,  perplexed,  or  feeble  manner, 
it  is  impossible  that  a  work,  composed  of  such  sentences,  can  be 
read  with  pleasure,  or  even  with  profit.  Whereas,  by  giving  atten- 
tion to  the  rules  which  relate  to  this  part  of  style,  we  acquire  the  ha 
bit  of  expressing  ourselves  with  perspicuity  and  elegance ;  and,  if  a 
disorder  chance  to  arise  in  some  of  our  sentences,  we  immediately 
see  where  it  lies,  and  are  able  to  rectify  it.* 

The  properties  most  essential  to  a  perfect  sentence,  seem  to  me 
the  four  following:  1.  Clearness  and  precision.  2.  Unity.  3.  Strength. 
4.  Harmony.  Each  of  these  I  shall  illustrate  separately,  and  at 
some  length. 

The  first  is,  clearness  and  precision.  The  least  failure  here,  the 
"least  degree  of  ambiguity,  which  leaves  the  mind  in  any  sort  of  sus- 
pense as  to  the  meaning,  ought  to  be  avoided  with  the  greatest 
care ;  nor  is  it  so  easy  a  matter  to  keep  always  clear  of  this,  as  one 
might,  at  first,  imagine.  Ambiguity  arises  from  two  causes :  either 
from  a  wrong  choice  of  words,  or  a  wrong  collocation  of  them.  Of 
the  choice  of  words,  as  far  as  regards  perspicuity,  I  treated  futly  in 
the  last  lecture.  Of  the  collocation  of  them,  I  am  now  to  treat. 
The  first  thing  to  be  studied  here,  is,  to  observe  exactly  the  rules  of 
grammar,  as  far  as  these  can  guide  us.  But  as  the  grammar  of  our ' 
language  is  not  extensive,  there  may  often  be  an  ambiguous  colloca- 

"  On  the  structure  of  sentences,  the  ancients  appear  to  have  bestowed  a  great  deal 
of  attention  and  care.  The  Treatise  of  Demetrius  PhaJereus,  nigi  Eg/UJive/ac,  abounds 
with  observations  upon  the  choice  and  collocation  of  words, carried  i  \  such  a  degree  of 
nicety,  as  would  frequently  seem  to  us  minute.  The  Treatise  of  Dyonysius  of Halicarnas- 
sus,  ntn  cwSsrius  ovC|UttT&;v,  is  more  masterly;  but  is  chiefly  confined  to  the  musical 
structure  of  periods  ;  a  subject  for  which  the  Greek  language  afforded  much  more  as- 
sistance to  their  writers,  than  our  tongue  admits.  On  the  arrangement  of  words  in 
English  sentences,  the  xviiith  chapt.  of  Lord  Kaims's  Elements  of  Criticism,  ought  tc 
be  cons  <lted  ■  and  also  the  2d  volume  of  Dr  Campbell's  Philosophy  of  Rhetoric. 


lect.  xi.]         STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.  11$ 

tion  of  words,  where  there  is  no  transgression  of  any  grammatical 
rule.  The  relations  which  the  words,  or  members  of  a  period,  bear 
to  one  another,  cannot  be  pointed  out  in  English,  as  in  the  Greek 
or  Latin,  by  means  of  termination ;  it  is  ascertained  only  by  the  po- 
sition in  which  they  stand.  Hence  a  capital  rule  in  the  arrangement 
of  sentences  is,  that  the  words  or  members  most  nearly  related, 
should  be  placed  in  the  sentence,  as  near  to  each  other  as  possible; 
so  as  to  make  their  mutual  relation  clearly  appear.  This  is  a  rule  not 
always  observed,  even  by  good  writers,  as  strictly  as  it  ought,  to  be. 
It  will  be  necessary  to  produce  some  instances,  which  willbo'h  show 
the  importance  ofthis  rule,  and  make  the  application  of  itunderstood. 
First,  in  the  position  of  adverbs,  which  are  used  to  qualify  the 
signification  of  something  which  either  precedes  or  follows  them, 
there  is  often  a  good  deal  of  nieety.  '  By  greatness,'  says  Mr.  Ad- 
dison, in  the  Spectator,  No.  412,  'I  do  not  only  mean  the  bulk  of 
any  single  object,  but  the  largeness  of  a  whole  view/  Here  the 
place  of  the  adverb  only,  renders  it  a  limitation  of  the  following 
word  mean.  'I  do  not  only  mean.'  The  question  may  then  be 
put,  What  does  be  more  than  mean?  Had  he  placed  it  after  bulk, 
still  it  would  have  been  wrong.  '  I  do  not  mean  the  bulk  only  of  any 
single  object.'  For  we  might  then  ask,  What  does  he  mean 
more  than  the  bulk  ?  Is  it  the  colour  ?  Or  any  other  property  ?  Its 
proper  place,  undoubtedly,  is,  after  the  word  object.  '  By  great- 
ness, I  do  not  mean  the  bulk  of  any  single  object  only ;'  for  then, 
when  we  pat  the  question,  What  more  does  he  mean  than  the  bulk 
of  a  single  object?  The  answer  comes  out  exactly  as  the  author 
intends,  and  gives  it;  '  The  largeness  of  a  whole  view.'  'Theism,' 
says  Lord  Shaftesbury, ' can  only  be  opposed  to  polytheism,  or  athe- 
ism.' Does  he  mean  that  theism  is  capable  of  nothing  else,  except 
being  opposed  to  polytheism  or  atheism?  This  is  what  his  words 
literally  import,  through  the  wrong  collocation  oionly.  He  should 
have  said,  'Theism  can  be  opposed  only  to  polytheism  or  atheism.' 
In  like  manner,  Dean  Swift,  (Project  for  the  advancement  of  Reli- 
gion,^ 'The  Romans  understood  liberty,  at  least,  as  well  as  we.' 
These  words  are  capable  of  two  different  senses,  according  as  the 
emphasis,  in  reading  them,  is  laid  upon  liberty,  or  upon  at  least.  In 
the  first  case,  they  will  signify,  that  whatever  other  things  we  may  un- 
derstand better  than  the  Romans,  liberty,  at  least,  was  one  thing, 
which  they  understood  as  well  as  we.  In  the  second  case,  they  will 
import,  that  liberty  was  understood,  at  least  as  well  by  them  as  by 
us  ;  meaning  that  by  them  it  was  better  understood.  If  this  last,  as 
I  make  no  doubt,  was  Dean  Swift's  own  meaning,  the  ambiguity 
would  have  been  avoided,  and  the  sense  rendered  independent  of 
the  manner  of  pronouncing,  by  arranging  the  words  thus:  'The 
Romans  understood  liberty  as  well,  at  least,  as  we.'  The  fact  is, 
with  respect  to  such  adverbs,  as  only,  wholly,  at  least,  And  the  resto' 
that  tribe,  that  in  common  discourse,  the  tone  and  emphasis  we  use 
in  pronouncing  them,  generally  serves  to  show  their  reference,  and 
to  make  the  meaning  clear;  and  hence  we  acquire  a  habit  of  throw 


116  STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.       [lect.  xt 

.ng  them  in  loosely  in  the  course  of  a  period.  But,  in  writing, 
where  a  man  speaks  to  the  eye,  and  not  to  the  ear,  he  ought  to  be 
more  accurate;  and  so  to  connect  those  adverbs  with  the  words 
which  they  qualify,  as  to  put  his  meaning  out  of  doubt,  upon  the 
first  inspection. 

Secondly,  when  a  circumstance  is  interposed  in  the  middle  of  a 
sentence,  it  sometimes  requires  attention  how  to  place  it,  so  as  to 
divest  it  of  all  ambiguity.  For  instance;  'Are  these  designs,'  says 
Lord  Bolingbroke,  Dissert,  on  Parties,  Dedicat.  '  Are  these  designs, 
which  any  man,  who  is  born  a  Briton,  in  any  circumstances,  in  any 
situation,  ought  to  be  ashamed  or  afraid  to  avow?'  Here  we  are 
left  at  a  loss,  whether  these  words,  lin  any  circumstances,  in  any 
situation]  are  connected  with,  'a  man  born  in  Briton,  in  any  cir- 
cumstances, or  situation,'  or  with  that  man's  'avowing his  designs, 
in  any  circumstances,  or  situation, into  which  he  may  be  brought?' 
If  the  latter,  as  seems  most  probable,  was  intended  to  be  the  mean- 
ing, the  arrangement  ought  to  have  been  conducted  thus ; '  Are  these 
designs,  which  any  man  who  is  born  a  Briton,  ought  to  be  ashamed 
or  afraid,  in  any  circumstances,  in  any  situation,  to  avow?'  But, 

Thirdly,  still  more  attention  is  required  to  the  proper  disposition 
of  the  relative  pronouns,  who,  which,  tohat,  whose,  and  of  all  those 
particles  which  express  the  connexion  of  the  parts  of  speech  with 
one  another.  As  all  reasoning  depends  upon  this  connexion,  we 
cannot  be  too  accurate  and  precise  here.  A  small  error  may  over- 
cloud the  meaning  of  the  whole  sentence;  and  even  where  the 
meaning  is  intelligible,  yet  where  these  relative  particles  are  out  of 
their  proper  place,  we  always  find  something  awkward  and  disjoint- 
ed in  the  structure  of  the  sentence.  Thus,  in  the  Spectator,  (No. 
54.)  'This  kind  of  wit,'  says  Mr.  Addison,  'was  very  much  in 
vogue  among  our  countrymen,  about  an  age  or  two  ago,  who  did 
not  practise  it  for  any  oblique  reason,  but  purely  for  the  sake  of  be- 
ing witty.'  We  are  at  no  loss  about  the  meaning  here ;  but  the  con- 
struction would  evidently  be  mended  by  disposing  of  the  circum- 
stance, 'about  an  age  or  two  ago,'  in  such  a  manner  as  not  to  sepa- 
rate the  relative  who,  from  its  antecedent  our  countrymen ;  in  this 
way:  '  About  an  age  or  two  ago,  this  kind  of  wit  was  very  much  in 
vogue  among  our  countrymen,  who  did  not  practise  it  for  any  ob- 
lique, reason,  but  purely  for  the  sake  of  being  witty.'  Spectator,  No. 
412.  '  We  no  where  meet  with  a  more  glorious  and  pleasing  show  in 
nature,  than  what  appears  in  the  heavens  at  the  rising  and  setting  of 
the  sun,  which  is  wholly  made  up  of  those  different  stains  of  light, 
that  show  themselves  in  clouds  of  a  different  situation.'  Which  is 
here  designed  to  connect  with  the  word  shou),  as  its  antecedent; 
but  it  stands  so  wide  from  it,  that  without  a  careful  attention  to  the 
sense,  we  would  be  naturally  led,  by  the  rules  of  syntax,  to  refer  it 
to  the  rising  and  setting  of  the  sun,  or  to  the  sun  itself;  and,  hence, 
an  indistinctness  is  thrown  over  the  whole  sentence.  The  following: 
passage  in  Bishop  Sherlock's  sermons,  (vol.  ii.  se?m.  15.)  is  sti-11 
more  censurable:  'It  is  folly  to  pretend  to  arm  ourselves  against 


\ect.  xi.]         STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.  117 

the  accidents  of  life,  by  heaping  up  treasures,  which  nothing;  can 
protect  us  against,  but  the  good  providence  of  our  heavenly  Father.' 
Which,  always  refers  grammatically  to  the  immediately  preceding 
substantive,  which  is  here  'treasures;'  and  this  would  make  non- 
sense of  the  whole  period.  Every  one  feels  this  impropiiety.  The 
sentence  ought  to  have  stood  thus  :  c  It  is  folly  to  pretend,  by  heap- 
ing up  treasures,  to  arm  ourselves  against  the  accidents  of  life, 
which  nothing  can  protect  us  against  but  the  good  providence  of 
our  heavenly  Father.' 

Of  the  like  nature  is  the  following  inaccuracy  of  Dean  Swift's. 
He  is  recommending  to  young  clergymen,  to  write  their  sermons 
fully  and  distinctly.  '  Many  '  says  he,  '  act  so  directly  contrary  to 
this  method,  that,  from  a  habit  of  saving  time  and  paper,  which  they 
acquired  at  the  university,  they  write  in  so  diminutive  a  manner, 
that  they  can  hardly  read  what  they  have  written.'  He  certainly 
does  not  mean,  that  they  had  acquired  time  and  paper  at  the  uni- 
versity, but  that  they  had  acquired  this  habit  there ;  and  therefore 
his  words  ought  to  have  run  thus  :  '  From  a  habit,  which  they  have 
acquired  at  the  university,  of  saving  time  and  paper,  they  write  in 
so  diminutive  a  manner.'  In  another  passage,  the  same  author  has 
left  his  meaning  altogether  uncertain,  by  misplacing  a  relative.  It 
is  in  the  conclusion  of  his  letter  to  a  member  of  parliament,  con- 
cerning the  sacramental  test :  '  Thus  I  have  fairly  given  you,  Sir, 
my  own  opinion,  as  well  as  that  of  a  great  majority  of  both  houses 
here,  relating  to  this  weighty  affair ;  upon  which  I  am  confident  you 
may  securely  reckon.'  Now  I  ask,  what  it  is  he  would  have  his 
correspondent  to  reckon  upon,  securely  ?  The  natural  construction 
leads  to  these  words,  *  this  weighty  affair.'  But,  as  it  would  be  dif- 
ficult to  make  any  sense  of  this,  it  is  more  probable  he  meant  that 
the  majority  of  both  houses  might  be  securely  reckoned  upon ;  though 
certainly  this  meaning,  as  the  words  are  arranged,  is  obscurely  ex- 
pressed. The  sentence  would  be  amended  by  arranging  it  thus : 
'  Thus,  Sir,  I  have  given  you  my  fown  opinion,  relating  to  this 
weighty  affair,  as  well  as  that  of  a  great  majority  of  both  houses 
here ;  upon  which  I  am  confident  you  may  securely  reckon.' 

Several  other  instances  might  be  given ;  but  I  reckon  those  which 
I  have  produced  sufficient  to  make  the  rule  understood;  that,  in  the 
construction  of  sentences,  one  of  the  first  things  to  be  attended  to, 
is  the  marshalling  of  the  words  in  such  order  as  shall  most  clearly 
mark  the  relation  of  the  several  parts  of  the  sentence  to  one  another ; 
particularly,  that  adverbs  shall  always  be  made  to  adhere  closely  to 
the  words  which  they  are  intended  to  qualify ;  that,  where  a  cir- 
cumstance is  thrown  in,  it  shall  never  hang  loose  in  the  midst  of  a 
period,  but  be  determined  by  its  place  to  one  or  other  member  of  it 
and  that  every  relative  word  which  is  used,  shall  instantly  present 
its  antecedent  to  the  mind  of  the  reader,  without  the  least  obscurity. 
1  have  mentioned  these  three  cases,  because  I  think  they  are  the 
most  frequent  occasions  of  ambiguity  creeping  into  sentences. 

Wit'   regard  to  relatives,  I  must  further  observe,  that  obscurity 
often  arises  from  the  too  frequent  repetition  of  them,  particularly  of 


118  STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.         [lect.  xi 

the  pronouns  who,  and  they,  and  them,  and  theirs,  when  we  have 
occasion  to  refer  to  different  persons  ;  as,  in  the  following  sentence 
of  Archbishop  TiKotson  ;  (vol.  1.  serm.  42.)  '  Men  look  with  an  evil 
eye  upon  the  good  that  is  in  others;  and  think  that  their  reputa- 
tion obscures  them,  and  their  commendable  qualities  stand  in  their 
light ;  and  therefore  they  do  what  they  can  to  cast  a  cloud  over  there, 
that  the  bright  shining  of  their  virtues  may  not  obscure  them.'  This  is 
altogether  careless  writing.  It  renders  style  often  obscure,  always  em- 
barrassed and  inelegant.  When  we  find  these  personal  pronouns 
crowding  too  fast  upon  us,  we  have  often  no  method  left,  but  to  throw 
the  whole  sentence  into  some  other  form,  which  may  avoid  those 
frequent  references  to  persons  who  have  before  been  mentioned. 

All  languages  are  liable  to  ambiguities.  Quintilian  gives  us  some 
'nstances  in  the  Latin,  arising  from  faulty  arrangement.  A  man, 
he  tells  us,  ordered  by  his  will,  to  have  erected  for  him,  after  bit 
death,  '  Statuam  auream  hastam  tenentem;'  upon  which  arose  a  dis 
pute  at  law,  whether  the  whole  statue,  or  the  spear  only,  was  to  be 
of  sold  ?  The  same  author  observes,  very  properly,  that  a  sentence 
is  always  faulty,  when  the  collocation  of  the  words  is  ambiguous, 
though  the  sense  can  be  gathered.  If  any  one  should  say,  '  Chre- 
metem  audivi  percussisse  Demeam,'  this  is  ambiguous,  both  in  sense 
and  structure,  whether  Chremes  or  Demea  gave  the  blow.  But  if 
this  expression  were  used, '  Se  vidisse  hominem  librum  scribentem/ 
although  the  meaning  be  clear,  yet  Quintilian  insists  that  the  ar- 
rangement is  wrong.  'Nam,'  says  he,  'etiamsi  librum  ab  homine 
scribi  pateat,  non  certe  hominem  a  libro,  male  tamen  composuerat, 
feceratque  ambiguum  quantum  in  ipso  fuit.'  Indeed,  to  have  the 
relation  of  every  word  and  member  of  a  sentence  marked  in  the 
most  proper  and  distinct  manner,  gives  not  clearness  only,  but  grace 
and  beauty  to  a  sentence,  making  the  mind  pass  smoothly  and 
agreeably  along  all  the  parts  of  it. 

"  I  proceed  now  to  the  second  quality  of  a  well-arranged  sente.iee, 
which  I  termed  its  unity.  T,his  is  a  capital  property.  In  every 
composition,  of  whatever  kind,  some  degree  of  unity  is  required, 
in  order  to  render  it  beautiful.  There  must  be  always  some  con- 
necting principle  among  the  parts.  Some  one  object  must  reign  and 
be  predominant.  This,  as  I  shall  hereafter  shoiv,  holds  in  history, 
in  epic  and  dramatic  poetry,  and  in  all  orations.  But  most  of  all,  in 
a  single  sentence,  is  required  the  strictest  unity.  For  the  very  na- 
ture of  a  sentence  implies  one  proposition  to  be  expressed.  It  may 
consist  of  parts,  indeed  ;  but  these  parts  must  be  so  closely  bound 
together,  as  to  make  the  impression  upon  the  mind,  of  one  object, 
not  of  many.  Now,  in  order  to  preserve  this  unity  of  a  sentence, 
the  following  rules  must  be  observed : — 

In  the  first  place,  during  the  course  of  the  sentence,  the  scene 
should  be  changed  as  little  as  possible.  We  should  not  be  hurried 
by  sudden  transitions  from  person  to  person,  nor  from  subject  to 
subject.  There  is  commonly,  in  every  sentence,  some  person  or 
thing,  which  is  the  governing  word.  This  should  be  continued  so, 
if  possible,  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  it.     Should  I  express 


lect.  xi.]       STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.  us 

myself  thus:  'After  we  came  to  anchor,  they  put  me  on  shore, 
where  I  was  welcomed  by  all  my  friends,  who  received  me  with  the 
greatest  kindness.'  In  this  sentence,  though  the  objects  contained 
in  it  have  a  sufficient  connexion  with  each  other,  yet,  by  this  man- 
ner of  representing  them,  by  shifting  so  often  both  the  place  and  the 
person,  we,  and  they,  and  I,  and  xoho,  they  appear  in  such  a  disunited 
view,  that  the  sense  of  connexion  is  almost  lost.  The  sentence  is 
restored  to  its  proper  unity,  by  turning  it  after  the  following  man- 
ner: 'Having  come  to  an  anchor,  I  was  put  on  shore,  where  I  was 
welcomed  by  all  my  friends,  and  received  with  the  greatest  kind- 
ness.' Writers  who  transgress  this  rule,  for  the  most  part  transgre:-  a. 
at  the  same  time, 

A  second  rule;  never  to  crowd  into  one  sentence,  things  which 
have  so  little  connexion,  that  they  could  bear  to  be  divided  into  two 
or  three  sentences.  The  violation  of  this  rule  never  fails  to  hurt  ana 
displease  a  reader.  Its  effect,  indeed,  is  so  bad,  that  of  the  two,  it  is  the 
safer  extreme,  to  err  rather  by  too  many  short  sentences,  than  by 
one  that  is  overloaded  and  embarrassed.  Examples  abound  in  au- 
thors. I  shall  produce  some  to  justify  what  I  now  say.  'Archbi- 
shop Tillotson,'  says  an  author  of  the  History  of  England,  '  died 
in  this  year.  He  was  exceedingly  beloved  both  by  king  William 
and  queen  Mary,  who  nominated  Dr.  Tennison,  Bishop  of  Lincoln, 
to  succeed  him.'  Who  would  expect  the  latter  part  of  this  sentence 
to  follow,  in  consequence  of  the  former?  'He  was  exceedingly 
beloved  by  both  king  and  queen,'  is  the  proposition  of  the  sen- 
tence :  we  look  for  some  proof  of  this,  or  at  least  something  related 
to  it  to  follow;  when  we  are  on  a  sudden  carried  off  to  a  new  pro- 
position, 'who  nominated  Dr.  Tennison  to  succeed  him.'  The 
following  is  from  Middleton's  Life  of  Cicero:  'In  this  uneasy  state, 
both  of  his  public  and  private  life,  Cicero  was  oppressed  by  a  new 
and  cruel  affliction,  the  death  of  his  beloved  daughter  Tullia;  which 
happened  soon  after  her  divorce  from  Dolabella;  whose  manners 
and  humours  were  entirely  disagreeable  to  her.'  The  principal  ob- 
ject in  this  sentence  is,  the  death  of  Tullia,  which  was  the  cause  of 
her  father's  affliction;  the  date  of  it,  as  happening  soon  after  her  di- 
vorce from  Dolabella,  may  enter  into  the  sentence  with  propriety ; 
but  the  subjunction  of  Dolabella's  character  is  foreign  to  the  main 
object;  and  breaks  the  unity  and  compactness  of  the  sentence  to- 
tally, by  setting  a  new  picture  before  the  reader.  The  following 
sentence,  from  a  translation  of  Plutarch,  is  still  worse :  '  Theii 
march,'  says  the  author,  speaking  of  the  Greeks  under  Alexander, 
'their  march  was  through  an  uncultivated  country,  whose  savage 
inhabitants  fared  hardly,  having  no  other  riches  than  a  breed  of  lean 
sheep,  whose  flesh  was  rank  and  unsavoury,  by  reason  of  their  conti- 
nual feeding  upon  sea-fish.'  Here  the  scene  is  changed  upon  us 
again  and  again.  The  march  of  the  Greeks,  the  description  of  the 
inhabitants  through  whose  country  they  travelled,  the  account  of 
their  sheep,  and  the  cause  of  their  sheep  being  ill-tasted  food,  form 
p  jumble  of  objects,  slightly  related  to  each  other,  which  the  reader 
cannot,  without  much  dif^mlty,  comprehend  under  one  view 
S 


120  STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.       [lect.  xr. 

These  examples  have  been  taken  from  sentences  of  no  great 
length,  yet  over-crowded.  Authors  who  deal  in  long  sentences,  arp 
very  apt  to  be  faulty  in  this  article.  One  need  only  open  Lord  Cla- 
rendon's history,  to  find  examples  every  where.  The  long,  involv- 
ed, and  intricate  sentences  of  that  author,  are  the  greatest  blemish 
of  his  composition ;  though,  in  other  respects,  as  a  historian,  he  has 
considerable  merit.  In  later,  and  more  correct  writers  than  Lord 
Clarendon,  we  find  a  period  sometimes  running  out  so  far,  and  com- 
prehending so  many  particulars,  as  to  be  more  properly  a  discourse 
than  a  sentence.  Take,  for  an  instance,  the  following,  from  Sir  Wil- 
liam Temple,  in  his  Essay  upon  Poetry:  'The  usual  acceptation 
lakes  profit  and  pleasure  for  two  different  things ;  and  not  only  calls 
the  followers  or  votaries  of  them  by  the  several  names  of  busy  and 
idle  men ;  but  distinguishes  the  faculties  of  the  mind,  that  are  con- 
versant about  them,  calling  the  operations  of  the  first,  wisdom;  and 
of  the  other,  wit;  which  is  a  Saxon  word,  used  to  express  what  the 
Spaniards  and  Italians  call  ingenio,  and  the  French,  esprit,  both 
from  the  Latin;  though  I  think  wit  more  particularly  signifies  that 
of  poetry,  as  may  occur  in  remarks  on  the  Runic  language.'  When 
one  arrives  at  the  end  of  such  a  puzzled  sentence,  he  is  surprised  to 
find  himself  got  to  so  great  a  distance  from  the  object  with  which 
he  at  first  set  out. 

Lord  Shaftesbury,  often  betrayed  into  faults  by  his  love  of  magni- 
ficence, shall  afford  us  the  next  example.  It  is  in  his  rhapsody 
where  he  is  describing  the  cold  regions :  '  At  length,'  says  he,  '  the 
sun  approaching,  melts  the  snow,  sets  longing  men  at  liberty,  and 
affords  them  means  and  time  to  make  provision  against  the  next  re- 
turn of  cold;'  This  first  sentence  is  correct  enough;  but  he  goes 
on:  '  It  breaks  the  icy  fetters  of  the  main,  where  vast  sea-monsters 
pierce  through  floating  islands,  with  arms  which  can  withstand  the 
crystal  rock ;  whilst  others  who  of  themselves  seem  great  as  islands, 
are  b)r  their  bulk  alone  armed  against  all  but  man,  whose  superiority 
over  creatures  of  such  stupendous  size  and  force,  should  make  him 
mindful  of  his  privilege  cf  reason,  and  force  him  humbly  to  adore 
the  great  composer  of  these  wondrous  frames,  and  the  author  of  his 
own  superior  wisdom.'  Nothing  can  be  more  unhappy  or  embar- 
rassed than  this  sentence ;  the  worse,  too,  as  it  is  intended  to  be  de- 
scriptive, where  every  thing  should  be  clear.  It  forms  no  distinct 
image  whatever.  The  it,  at  the  beginning,  is  ambiguous,  whether 
it  mean  the  sun  or  the  cold.  The  object  is  changed  three  times  in 
the  sentence  ;  beginning  with  the  sun,  which  breaks  the  ic)r  fetters 
of  the  main;  then  the  sea-monsters  become  the  principal  person- 
ages; and  lastly,  by  a  very  unexpected  transition,  man  is  brought 
into  view,  and  receives  a  long  and  serious  admonition,  before  the 
sentence  closes.  I  do  not  at  present  insist  on  the  impropriety  o« 
such  expressions  as,  God's  being  the  composer  of  frames;  and  th* 
sea-monsters  having  arms  that  withstand  rocks.  Shaftesbury', 
strength  lay  in  reasoning  and  sentiment,  more  than  in  description 
however  mucn  his  descriptions  have  been  sometime./  admiVed. 

[  shall  only  give  one  instance  more  on  this  hea£,  rc  .<o  Dcm  Swir. 


lect.  xi.]        STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.  121 

in  his  proposal,  too,  for  correcting  the  English  language,  where,  in 
place  of  a  sentence,  he  has  given  a  loose  dissertation  upon  several 
subjects.  Speaking  of  the  progress  of  our  language,  after  the  time 
of  Cromwell:  'To  this  succeeded,'  says  he,  'that  licentiousness 
which  entered  with  the  restoration,  and  from  infecting  our  religion 
and  morals,  fell  to  corrupt  our  language ;  which  last  was  not  likely  to 
be  much  improved  by  those,  who  at  that  time  made  up  the  court  of  king 
Charles  the  Second;  either  such  as  had  followed  him  in  his  banish- 
ment, or  who  had  been  altogether  conversant  in  the  dialect  of  these 
fanatic  times;  or  young  men  who  had  been  educated  in  the  same 
country ;  so  that  the  court,  which  used  to  be  the  standard  of  correct- 
ness and  propriety  of  speech,  was  then,  and  I  think  has  ever  since 
continued,  the  worst  school  in  England  for  that  accomplishment: 
and  so  will  remain,  till  better  care  be  taken  in  the  education  of  our 
nobility,  that  they  may  set  out  into  the  world  with  some  foundation 
of  literature,  in  order  to  qualify  them  for  patterns  of  politeness.' — 
How  many  different  facts,  reasonings,  and  observations,  are  here 
presented  to  the  mind  at  once !  and  yet  so  linked  together  by  the 
author,  that  they  all  make  parts  of  a  sentence,  which  admits  of  no 
greater  division  in  pointing,  than  a  semicolon  between  any  of  its 
members  ?  Having  mentioned  pointing,  I  shall  here  take  notice, 
that  it  is  in  vain  to  propose,  by  arbitrary  punctuation,  to  amend  the 
defects  of  a  sentence,  to  correct  its  ambiguity,  or  to  prevent  its  con- 
fusion. For  commas,  colons,  and  points,  do  not  make  the  proper 
divisions  of  thought;  but  only  serve  to  mark  those  which  arise  from 
the  tenour  of  the  author's  expression ;  and,  therefore,  they  are  proper 
or  not,  just  according  as  they  correspond  to  the  natural  division  oi 
the  sense.  When  they  are  inserted  in  wrong  places,  they  deserve, 
and  will  meet  with,  no  regard. 

I  proceed  to  a  third  rule,  for  preserving  the  unity  of  sentences, 
which  is,  to  keep  clear  of  all  parentheses  in  the  middle  of  them 
On  some  occasions,  these  may  have  a  spirited  appearance ;  as 
prompted  by  a  certain  vivacity  of  thought,  which  can  glance  happily 
aside,  as  it  is  going  along.  But,  for  the  most  part,  their  effect  is  ex- 
tremely bad;  being  a  sort  of  wheels  within  wheels;  sentences  in  the 
midst  of  sentences;  the  perplexed  method  of  disposing  of  some 
thought,  which  a  writer  wants  art  to  introduce  in  its  proper  place 
It  were  needless  to  give  many  instances,  as  they  occur  so  oftep 
among  incorrect  writers.  I  shall  produce  one  from  Lord  Boling- 
broke ;  the  rapidity  of  whose  genius,  and  manner  of  writing,  betrays 
him  frequently  into  inaccuracies  of  this  sort.  It  is  in  the  introduc- 
tion to  his  idea  of  a  patriot  king,  where  he  writes  thus :  'It  seems  to 
me,  that,  in  order  to  maintain  the  system  of  the  world,  at  a  certain 
point,  far  below  that  of  ideal  perfection,  (for  we  are  made  capable  of 
conceiving  what  we  are  incapable  of  attaining)  but,  however,  suffi 
cient,  upon  the  whole,  to  constitute  a  state  easy  and  happy,  or,  at  the 
worst,  tolerable ;  I  say,  it  seems  to  me,  that  the  Author  of  Nature  has 
thought  fit  to  mingle,  from  time  to  time,  among  the  societies  of  men, 
a  few,  and  but  a  few,  of  those  on  whom  he  :»s  graciously  pleased  tc 

16 


122  STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.        ulect.  xi 

bestow  a  larger  portion  of  the  ethereal  spirit,  than  is  given,  in  the 
ordinary  course  of  his  government,  to  the  sons  of  men.'  A  very 
bad  sentence  this;  into  which,  by  the  help  of  a  parenthesis,  and 
other  interjected  circumstances,  his  lordship  had  contrived  to 
thrust  so  many  things,  that  he  is  forced  to  begin  the  construction 
again  with  the  phrase,  I  say :  which,  whenever  it  occurs,  may  be 
always  assumed  as  a  sure  mark  of  a  clumsy,  ill-constructed  sentence ; 
excusable  in  speaking,  where  the  greatest  accuracy  is  not  expected, 
but  in  polished  writing,  unpardonable. 

I  shall  add  only  one  rule  more  for  the  unity  of  a  sentence,  which 
is,  to  bring  it  always  to  a  full  and  perfect  close.  Every  thing  that 
is  one,  should  have  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end.  I  need  not 
take  notice,  that  an  unfinished  sentence  is  no  sentence  at  all,  ac- 
cording to  any  grammatical  rule.  But  very  often  we  meet  with 
sentences  that  are,  so  to  speak,  more  than  finished.  When  we  have 
arrived  at  what  we  expected  was  to  be  the  conclusion,  when  we 
have  come  to  the  word  on  which  the  mind  is  naturally  led,  by  what 
went  before,  to  rest ;  unexpectedly,  some  circumstance  pops  out 
which  ought  to  have  been  omitted,  or  to  have  been  disposed  of  else- 
where; but  which  is  left  lagging  behind,  like  a  tail  adjected  to  the 
sentence;  somewhat  that,  as  Mr.  Pope  describes  the  Alexandrian 
line, 

"  Like  a  wounded  snake,  drags  its  slow  length  along." 

All  these  adjections  to  the  proper  close,  disfigure  a  sentence  ex- 
tremely. They  give  it  a  lame,  ungraceful  air,  and,  in  particular, 
they  break  its  unity.  Dean  Swift,  for  instance,  in  his  Letter  to  a 
Young  Clergyman,  speaking  of  Cicero's  writings,  expresses  himself 
thus : '  With  these  writings,  young  divines  are  more  conversant  than 
with  those  of  Demosthenes,  who,  by  many  degrees,  excelled  the 
other;  at  least  as  an  orator.'  Here  the  natural  close  of  the  sentence 
is  at  these  words,  'excelled  the  other.'  These  words  conclude  the 
proposition;  we  look  for  no  more;  and  the  circumstance  added, 
'at  least  as  an  orator,'  comes  in  with  a  very  halting  pace.  How 
much  more  compact  would  the  sentence  have  been,  if  turned  thus : 
'With  these  writings,  young  divines  are  more  conversant  than  with 
those  of  Demosthenes,  who,  by  many  degrees,  as  an  orator  at  least, 
excelled  the  other.'  In  the  following  sentence,  from  Sir  William 
Temple,  the  adjection  to  the  sentence  is  altogether  foreign  to  it. 
Speaking  of  Burnet's  Theory  of  the  Earth,  and  Fontenelle's  Plura- 
lity of  Worlds :  'The  first,'  says  he,  '  could  not  end  his  learned  trea- 
tise without  a  panegyric  of  modern  learning,  in  comparison  of  the 
ancient;  and  the  other,  falls  so  grossly  into  the  censure  of  the  old 
poetry,  and  preference  of  the  new,  that  I  could  not  read  either  of 
these  strains  without  some  indignation;  which  no  quality  among 
men  is  so  apt  to  raise  in  me  as  self-sufficiency.'  The  word  '  indig- 
nation,' concluded  the  sentence;  the  last  member,  'which  no  quali- 
ty among  men  is  so  apt  to  raise  in  me  as  self-sufficiency,'  is  a  pro- 
position altogether  new,  added  after  the  proper  close. 


(122  a) 
aUESTIOffS. 


In  the  last  lecture,  what  was  consi- 
iered  the  fundamental  quality  of  style? 
To  what,  did  what  was  said  of  this 
chiefly  relate  ?  From  words,  to  what 
does  our  author  next  proceed ;  and 
why  does  he  purpose  treating  it  fully  ? 
Besides  perspicuity,  into  what  does  our 
author  purpose  to  inquire ;  and  why  ? 
Farther  than  what,  is  it  not  easy  to 
give  an  exact  definition  of  a  sentence  ? 
What  is  Aristotle's  definition  ?  Why 
does  this  admit  of  great  latitude  ?  What 
is  the  first  variety  that  occurs  in  the 
consideration  of  sentences  ?  What  can- 
not be  ascertained  by  any  definite  mea- 
sure ?  At  the  same  time,  what  is  obvi- 
ous ?  Of  sentences  immoderately  long, 
what  is  observed  ?  To  what  must  re- 
gard be  had,  in  discourses  that  are  to 
be  spoken ?  What  is  the  effect  of  using 
long  periods  in  compositions,  where 
pronunciation  has  no  place ;  and  why? 
At  the  same  time,  what  is  remarked  of 
short  sentences?  With  regard  to  the 
length  and  construction  of  sentences, 
what  distinction  do  French  cpitics 
make  ?  What  is  the  style  psri'odique  ; 
and  what  is  said  of  it?  Repeat  the  ex- 
ample from  Sir  William  Temple's  let- 
ter to  Lady  Essex.  Who  abounds  with 
sentences  of  this  kind?  What  is  the 
style  coiip6  ?  Repeat  the  example  from 
Pope's  preface  to-  his  works.  Wl^se 
method  of  writing  is  this ;  and  what 
subjects  does  it  suit?  What  air  do 
these  styles  respectively  give  to  com- 
position ;  and  what  follows  ?  Why  is  it 
necessary,  in  almost  every  kind  of  com- 
position, to  intermix  them  ?  How  does 
Cicero  describe  these  two  kinds  of 
style?  Where  must  tliis  variety  be 
studied,  besides  in  the  succession  of 
lonsj  and  short  sentences;  and  why? 
What  remark  tbllows  ?  In  this  article, 
who  has  shown  great  art  ?  What  was 
observed  of  his  style,  in  the  last  lec- 
ture ?  But,  what  has  he  studied  more 
than  any  other  English  author;  and 
why?  From  these  general  observations, 
jo  what  do  we  now  descend  ?  On  what, 
in  every  kind  of  composition,  does  much 
depend ;  and  why  ?  By  giving  atten- 
tion to  the  rules  which  relate  to  this 
part  of  style,  what  shall  we  acquire  ; 
and  what  follows?  What  are  the  four 
properties,  which  are  most  essential  to 
a  perfect  sentence?  In  the  first  of 
these,  what  ought,  with  the  greatest 
"are,  to  be  avoided  ?  From  what  two 


causes  does  ambiguity  arise  ?  How  far 
has  the  choice  of  words  oeen  conside1  «■ 
ed ;  and  of  what  is  our  author  now  to 
treat  ?  What  is  the  first  thinjr,  here,  to 
be  studied?  But  as  the  grammar  of  our 
language  is  not  extensive,  what  fol- 
lows ?  In  what  manner  cannot  the  re- 
lation of  words  in  English  be  pointed 
out ;  and  how  only  is  it  ascertained  ? 
Hence,  what  is  a  capital  rule  in  the  ar- 
rangement of  sentences;  and  of  it, 
what  is  observed  ?  What,  therefore, 
will  be  necessary?  In  the  position  of 
adverbs,  what  is  remarked  ?  What 
example  is  given  irom  Mr.  Addison ; 
and  what  remarks  are  made  upon  it  ? 
What  example  is  given  from  Lord 
Shaftsbury  ?  What  does  it  literally  im- 
port ;  and  what  should  he  have  said  ? 
What  example  is  given  from  Dean 
Swiff  ?  Of  what,  different  senses  are 
these  words  capable  i  What  will  they, 
in  the  first  case,  signify  ;  and  what,  in 
the  second  ?  If  this  last  was  Dean 
Swift's  meaning,  how  might  the  ambi- 
guity been  avoided  ?  Of  such  adverbs, 
as,  only,  wholly,  and  at  least,  what  is 
observed:  and  hence,  what  habit  do 
we  acquire?  How  should  adverbs,  in 
■writing,  be  connected  with  the  words 
which  they  qualify  ?  On  the  interposi- 
tion of  a  circumstance  in  the  middle  ol 
a  sentence,  what  is  observed  ?  What 
instance  of  a  violation  of  this  direction 
is  given  from  Lord  Bolingbroke  ?  Here, 
about  what  are  we  left  at  loss  ?  If  the 
latter  was  intended  to  be  the  meaning, 
how  should  the  sentence  have  been  ar- 
ranged ?  But,  in  the  proper  disposition 
of  what,  is  still  more  attention  required? 
Why  can  we  not  be  too  accurate  and 
precise  here  ?  What  may  be  the  effect 
of  a  small  error  ?  Where  tne  meaning 
is  intelligible,  yet  where  these  relative 
particles  are  out  of  place,  what  do  we 
always  find  V  To  illustrate  this  remark, 
what  example  is  given  from  Mr.  Addi- 
son ?  How  would  the  construction  here, 
evidently  be  mended  ?  Repeat  the  sen- 
tence in  its  improved  form.  Repeat  the 
next  example  from  Mr.  Addison.  What 
is  remarked  on  the  position  of  the  word 
rihich,  in  this  sentence  ?  What  viola- 
tion of  the  same  direction  is  quoted 
from  Bishop  Sherlock's  sermons? 
What  are  the  remarks  upon  it;  and 
how  should  it  have  been  arranged? 
Where  is  an  inaccuracy  of  the  sarae 
kind  found,  in  the  writings  cC  Dean 


122  b 


QUESTIONS. 


[LECT.  XI 


Swift?  Repeat  the  passage.  What  is 
remarked  upon  it ;  and  how  should  it 
have  been  arranged  ?  What  passage  is 
given  from  a  letter  to  a  member  of  par- 
liament ;  what  "emarks  are  made  upon 
it  •  and  by  what  arrangement  might  it 
be  amended  ? 

To  make  what  rule  understood,  are  the 
instances  ahead)'  given  considered  suffi- 
cient ?  Why  have  these  three  cases  been 
mentioned  ?  With  regard  to  relatives, 
what  is  further  observed?  Of  what  one's 
particularly ;  and  when?  Repeat  the 
example  to  illustrate  this  remark,  quoted 
from  Archbishop  Tillotson.  Of  it,  what 
is  observed  ?  When  we  find  these  per- 
sonal pronouns  crowded  too  fast  upon 
us,  what  is  the  consequence?  What 
instances  of  ambiguity  arising  from 
faulty  arrangement,  are  given  by 
Quintilian,  in  the  Latin  language  ? 
What  is  the  effect  of  having  the  rela- 
tion of  every  word  and  member  of  a 
sentence  marked  in  the  most  proper  and 
distinct  manner?  To  what  does  our 
author  next  proceed ;  what  is  said  of 
it ;  and  why  is  some  degree  of  it  re- 
quired in  every  composition?  There 
must  always  be  what ;  and  what  must 
reign  ?  This  shall  afterwards  be  shown 
to  hold  in  what  kinds  of  composition  ? 
Where  is  it,  most  of  all,  required ;  and 
why  ?  When  a  sentence  consists  of  dif- 
ferent parts,  how  closely  must  these 
parts  be  bound  together  ?  In  order  to 
preserve  this  unity  of  a  sentence,  what 
is  the  first  rule  to  be  observed  ?  What 
remarks  follow ;  and  what  example  is 
given  to  illustrate  them  ?  Of  this  sen- 
tence, what  is  remarked;  and  how  may 
it  be  restored  to  its  proper  unity  ?  Wri- 
ters, who  transgress  this  rule,  for  the 
most  part,  transgress  what  other  ? 
What  is  the  effect  of  its  violation? 
Than  to  err  thus,  what  is  a  safer  ex- 
treme? What  is  the  first  example 
given  to  justify  what  is  now  said? 
What  remarks  are  made  on  it? 
Repeat  the  passage  from  Middleton's 
Life  of  Cicero.  What  is  its  principal 
object ;  and  what  farther  is  remarked 
upon  it  ?  What  example  is  given  from 
Plutarch  ?  Of  this  passage,  what  is  ob- 
served; and  in  it  what  are  found?  What 
authors  are  apt  to  be  faulty  in  this  ar- 
ticle ?  Of  Lord  Clarendon's  sentences, 
what  is  observed  ?  In  later  and  more 
correct  writers,  what  do  we  find  ? 
What  instance  is  given  from  Sir  Wil- 
liam Temples  Essay  upon  Poetry? 


When  one  arrives  at  the  end  of  such  a 
puzzled  sentence,  at  what  is  he  sur- 
prised ?  Who  affords  us  the  next  ex- 
ample;  and  where  is  it  found?  Re- 
peat it.  What  are  the  remarks  of  our 
author  upon  it  ?  Where  did  Shaftesbu- 
ry's strength  lay  ?  From  whom  is  the 
next  instance  taken ;  and  where  is  it 
found?  Repeat  it.  What  is  said  of  this 
passage  ?  Of  arbitrary  punctuation, 
what  is  remarked?  To  what  rule  does 
our  author  next  proceed  ?  When  may 
these  have  a  spirited  appearance? 
But,  why  is  their  effect,  for  the  most 
part,  extremely  bad  ?  From  whom  is 
the  instance  to  illustrate  this  rule 
taken ;  and  what  is  said  of  his  genius  ? 
Repeat  the  passage.  Of  this  sentence, 
what  is  remarked  ?  To  the  use  of  what 
phrase  was  he,  consequently,  forced  ; 
and  what  is  said  of  it  ?  To  preserve  the 
unity  of  a  sentence,  what  is  the  last 
rule  given  ?  What  should  every  thing 
that  is  one,  have?  Of  whatisit  unneces- 
sary to  take  notice  ?  When  is  a  sen- 
tence, so  to  speak,  more  than  finished  ? 
What  is  the  effect  of  these  adjectives 
to  the  proper  close  ?  What  air  do  they 
give  it?  What  instance  of  a  violation 
of  this  rule  is  given  from  Dean  S\v  ift  ? 
What  is  the  natural  close  of  this  sen- 
tence ;  and  why  ?  How  should  it  have 
been  arranged  ?  What  instance  of  ihe 
same  fault  is  given  from  Sir  William 
Temple?  What  word  properly  closes 
the  sentence ;  and  of  the  last  member, 
what  is  remarked  ? 


ANALYSIS. 

Sentences. 

1.  The  definition  of  a  sentence. 

2.  The    distinction    of    long    and 
short  sentences. 

3.  Clearness  and  precision. 

A.  In  the  position  of  adverbs. 

b.  In  the  interposition  of  sen- 
tences. 

c.  In  the  proper  disposition  of 
relatives. 

4.  Unity. 

A.  The  scene  should  not  be 
changed. 

B.  Distinct  subjects  should  not 
be  introduced  into  the  same 
sentence. 

c.  Parentheses  in  the  middle  of 
sentences  should  be  avoided. 

D.  Sentences  should  be  brought 
to  a  ull  and  perfect  close. 


(  123  ) 

LECTURE  XII. 

STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES. 

Having  treated  of  perspicuity  and  unity,  as  necessary  to  be  studi 
ed  in  the  structure  of  sentences,  I  proceed  to  the  third  quality  of  a 
correct  sentence,  which  I  termed  strength.  By  this,  I  mean,  such 
*  disposition  of  the  several  words  and  members,  as  shall  bring  out 
the  sense  to  the  best  advantage;  as  shall  render  tbe  impression, 
which  the  period  is  designed  to  make,  most  full  and  complete:  and 
give  every  word,  and  every  member,  their  due  weight  and  force. 
The  two  former  qualities  of  perspicuity  and  unity,  are,  no  doubt, 
absolutely  necessary  to  the  production  of  this  effect;  but  more  is  stil 
requisite.  For  a  sentence  may  be  clear  enough;  it  may  also  be 
compact  enough,  in  all  its  parts,  or  have  the  requisite  unity ;  and 
yet  by  some  unfavourable  circumstance  in  the  structure,  it  may  fail 
in  that  strength  or  liveliness  of  impression,  which  a  more  happy  ar 
rangement  would  have  produced. 

The  first  rule  which  I  shall  give,  for  promoting  the  strength  of  a 
sentence,is,  to  divest  it  of  all  redundant  words.  These  may,  some- 
times, be  consistent  with  a  considerable  degree  both  of  clearness  and 
unity;  but  they  are  always  enfeebling.  They  make  the  sentence 
move  along  tardy  and  encumbered  : 

Est  brevitate  opus,  ut  currat  sententia,  nonse 
Impediat  verbis,  lassas  onerantibus  aures.* 

It  is  a  general  maxim,  that  any  words  which  do  not  add  some  im- 
portance to  the  meaning  of  a  sentence,  always  spoil  it.  They  can 
not  be  superfluous,  without  being  hurtful.  '  Obstat,'  says  Quintil- 
lan,  'quicquid  non  adjuvat'  All  that  can  be  easily  supplied  in  the 
mind,  is  better  left  out  in  the  expression.  Thus :  *  Content  with  de- 
serving a  triumph,  he  refused  the  honour  of  it/  is  better  language 
than  to  say,  'Being  content  with  deserving  a  triumph,  he  refused 
the  honour  of  it.'  I  consider  it,  therefore,  as  one  of  the  most  useful 
exercises  of  correction,  upon  reviewing  what  we  have  written  or 
composed,  to  contract  that  round-about,  method  of  expression,  and 
to  lop  off  those  useless  excrescences  which  are  commonly  found  in  a 
first  draught.  Here  a  severe  eye  should  be  employed;  and  we 
shall  always  find  our  sentences  acquire  more  vigour  and  energy  when 
thus  retrenched:  provided  always  thatwe  runnotintothe  extremeof 
pruning  so  very  close,  as  to  give  a  hardness  and  dryness  to  style. 
For  here,  as  in  all  other  things,  there  is  a  due  medium.  Some  regard, 
though  not  the  principal,  must  be  had  to  fulness  and  swelling  of 
sound.  Some  leaves  must  be  left  to  surround  and  shelter  the  fruit. 
As  sentences  should  be  cleared  of  redundant  words,  so  also  of 
redundant  members.     As  every  word  ought  to  present  a  new  idea, 

*■  "  Concise  your  diction,  let  your  sense  be  clear, 

"  Nor  with  a  weight  of  words,  fatigue  the  ear.''  Frahcis 


124  STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.       [lect.  xir 

so  every  member  ought  to  contain  a  new  thought.  Opposed  to  this, 
stands  the  fault  we  sometimes  meet  with,  of  the  last  member  of  a 
period,  being  no  other  than  the  echo  of  the  former,  or  the  repeti- 
tion of  it  in  somewhat  a  different  form.  For  example;  speaking 
of  beauty,  'The  very  first  discovery  of  it,'  says  Mr.  Addison, 
'strikes  the  mind  with  inward  joy,  and  spreads  delight  through  all 
its  faculties,'  (No.  412.)  And  elsewhere, '  It  is  impossible  for  us  to 
behold  the  divine  works  with  coldness  or  indifference,  or  to  survey 
so  many  beauties,  without  a  secret  satisfaction  and  complacency. 
(No.  413.)  In  both  these  instances  little  or  nothing  is  added  by  the 
second  member  of  the  sentence  to  what  was  already  expressed  in 
the  first;  and  though  the  free  and  flowing  manner  of  such  an  author 
as  Mr.  Addison,  and  the  graceful  harmony  of  his  period,  may 
palliate  such  negligences;  yet,  in  general,  it  holds,  that  style,  freed 
from  this  prolixity,  appears  both  more  strong  and  more  beautiful 
The  attention  becomes  remiss,  the  mind  falls  into  inaction,  when 
words  are  multiplied  without  a  corresponding  multiplication  of  ideas. 

After  removing  superfluities,  the  second  direction  I  give,  for 
promoting  the  strength  of  a  sentence,  is  to  attend  particularly  to  the 
use  of  copulatives,  relatives,  and  all  the  particles  employed  for 
transition  and  connexion.  These  little  words,  but  ^  and,  ivhich,ivhose, 
where,  &c.  are  frequently  the  most  important  words  of  any ;  they 
are  the  joints  or  hinges  upon  which  all  sentences  turn,  and  of  course, 
much,  both  of  their  gracefulness  and  strength,  must  depend  upon 
such  particles.  The  varieties  in  using  them  are,  indeed,  so  infinite, 
that  no  particular  system  of  rules  respecting  them  can  be  gwen. 
Attention  to  the  practice  of  the  most  accurate  writers,  joined  with 
frequent  trials  of  the  different  effects  produced  by  a  different  usage 
of  those  particles,  must  here  direct  us.*  Some  observations,  I 
shall  mention,  which  have  occurred  to  me  as  useful,  without  pre- 
tending to  exhaust  the  subject. 

What  is  called  splitting  of  particles,  or  separating  a  preposition 
from  the  noun  which  it  governs,  is  always  to  be  avoided.  As  if  I 
should  say,  'Though  virtue  borrows  no  assistance  from,  yet  it  may 
often  be  accompanied  by,  the  advantages  of  fortune.'  In  such  in 
stances,  we  feel  a  sort  of  pain,  from  the  revulsion,  or  violent  separa- 
tion of  two  things,  which,  by  their  nature,  should  be  closely  united. 
We  are  put  to  a  stand  in  thought;  being  obliged  to  rest  for  a  little 
on  the  preposition  by  itself,  which,  at  the  same  time,  carries  no  sig- 
nificant y,  till  it  is  joined  to  its  proper  substantive  noun. 

Some  writers  needlessly  multiply  demonstrative  and  relative  par 
tides,  by  the  frequent  use  of  such  phraseology  as  this:  'There  is 
nothing  which  disgusts  us  sooner  than  the  empty  pomp  of  language.' 
In  introducing  a  subject,  or  laying  down  a  proposition,  to  which  we 
demand  particular  attention,  this  sort  of  style  is  very  proper;  but, 
in  the  ordinary  current  of  discourse,  it  is  better  to  express  ourselves 
more,  simply  and  shortly:  'Nothing  disgusis  us  sooner  than  the 
empty  pomp  ©f  language.' 

*  On  this  hehil,  Dr.  Lowth's  short  Introduction  to  English  Grammar  deserves  to  be 
consulted:  where  several  niceties  of  the  language  are  well  lointed  out 


lect.  xii.]       STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.  125 

Other  writers  make  a  practice  of  omitting  the  relative,  in  a  phrase 
of  a  different  kind  from  the  former,  where  they  think  the  meaning 
can  be  understood  without  it.  As,  '  The  man  I  love.'  '  The  domi- 
nions we  possessed,  and  the  conquests  we  made.'  But  though  this 
eliptical  style  be  intelligible,  and  is  allowable  in  conversation  and 
epistolary  writing,  yet  in  all  writings  of  a  serious  or  dignified  kind, 
it  is  ungraceful.  There,  the  relative  should  always  be  inserted  in  its 
proper  place,  and  the  construction  filled  up:  'The  man  whom  I 
love.'  '  The  dominions  which  we  possessed,  and  the  conquests 
which  we  made.' 

With  regard  to  the  copulative  particle,  and,  which  occurs  so  fre 
quently  in  all  kinds  of  composition,  several  observations  are  to  be 
made.  First,  it  is  evident,  that  the  unnecessary  repetition  of  it  en- 
feebles style.  It  has  the  same  sort  of  effect,  as  the  frequent  use  of 
the  vulgar  phrase,  and  so,  when  one  is  tellkig  a  story  in  common 
conversation.  We  shall  take  a  sentence  from  Sir  William  Temple, 
for  an  instance.  He  is  speaking  of  the  refinement  of  the  French 
language :  '  The  academy  set  up  by  Cardinal  Richelieu,  to  amuse 
the  wits  of  that  age  and  country,  and  divert  them  from  raking  into 
his  politics  and  ministry,  brought  this  into  vogue;  and  the  French 
wits  have,  for  this  last  age,  been  wholly  turned  to  the  refinement  oi 
their  style  and  language  ;  and,  indeed,  with  such  success,  that  it  can 
hardly  be  equalled,  and  runs  equally  through  their  verse  and  then 
prose.'  Here  are  no  fewer  than  eight  ands  in  one  sentence.  This 
agreeable  writer  too  often  makes  his  sentences  drag  in  this  manner, 
by  a  careless  multiplication  of  copulatives.  It  is  strange  how  a  wri- 
ter, so  accurate  as  Dean  Swift,  should  have  stumbled  on  so  impro- 
per an  application  of  this  particle,  as  he  has  made  in  the  following 
sentence ;  Essay  on  the  Fates  of  Clergymen.  '  There  is  no  talent 
so  useful  towards  rising  in  the  world,  or  which  puts  men  more  out  of 
the  reach  of  fortune,  than  that  quality  generally  possessed  by  the 
dullest  sort  of  people,  and  is,  in  common  language,  called  discre- 
tion: a  species  of  lower  prudence,  by  the  assistance  of  which,'  &c. 
By  the  insertion  of,  and  is,  in  place  of,  ivhich  is,  he  has  not  only  clog- 
ged the  sentence,  but  even  made  it  ungrammaticai. 

But,  in  the  next  place,  it  is  worthy  of  observation,  that  though  the 
natural  use  of  the  conjunction  and,  be  to  join  objects  together,  and 
thereby,  as  one  would  think,  to  make  their  connexion  more  close; 
yet,  in  fact,  by  dropping  the  conjunction,  we  often  mark  a  clcsrr 
connexion,  a  quicker  succession  of  objects,  than  when  it  is  inserted 
between  them.  Longinus  makes  this  remark ;  which,  from  many 
instances,  appears  to  be  just:  'Veni,  vidi,  vici,'*  expresses  with 
more  spirit,  the  rapidity  and  quick  succession  of  conquests,  than  ;f 
connecting  particles  had  been  used.  So,  in  the  following  descrip- 
tion of  a  rout,  in  Csesar's  Commentaries:  '  Nostri,  emisis  piks,  g.^- 
diis  rem  gerunt;  repcnte  post  tergum  equitatus  cernitur-  eohortes 
alias  appropinquant.  Hostes  terga  vertunt;  fugientibus  equites  oc- 
currunt;  fit  magna  caedes.'t     Bel.  Gal.  1.  7. 

*  "  I  came,  I  saw,  I  conquered." 

i  "Our  men,  after  having-  discharged  theii  javelins,  attack  with  sword  in  handi 


<-6        STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.    1>ct.  w 

Hence  it  follows,  that  when,  on  the  other  hand,  we  seek  to  pre- 
vent a  quick  transition  from  one  object  to  another,  when  we  are 
making  some  enumeration,  in  which  we  wish  that  the  object  should 
appear  as  distinct  from  each  other  as  possible,  and  that  the  mind 
should  rest,  for  a  moment,  on  each  object  by  itself ;  in  this  case  co- 
pulatives may  be  multiplied  with  peculiar  advantage  and  grace.  As 
when  Lord  Bolingbroke  says,  '  Such  a  man  might  fall  a  victim  to 
power ;  but  truth,  and  reason,  and  liberty,  would  fall  with  him.'  In 
the  same  manner,  Csesar  describes  an  engagement  with  the  Nervii : 
'  His  equitibus  facile  pulsis  ac  proturbatis,  incredibili  celeritate  ad 
flumen  decurrerunt ;  ut  pene  uno  tempore,  et  ad  silvas,  et  in  flumine, 
et  jam  in  manibus  nostris,  hostes  viderentur.'*  Bel.  Gal.  1.  2. 
Here,  although  he  is  describing  a  quick  succession  of  events 
yet,  as  it  is  his  intention  to  show  in  how  many  places  the  enemy 
seemed  to  be  at  one  time,  the  copulative  is  very  happily  redoubled 
in  order  to  paint  more  strongly  the  distinction  of  these  several 
places. 

This  attention  to  the  several  cases,  when  it  is  proper  to  omit  and 
when  to  redouble  the  copulative,  is  of  considerable  importance  to 
all  who  study  eloquence.  For,  it  is  a  remarkable  particularity  in 
language,  that  the  omission  of  a  connecting  particle  should  some- 
times serve  to  make  objects  appear  more  closely  connected;  and 
that  the  repetition  of  it  should  distinguish  and  separate  them,  in 
some  measure,  from  each  other.  Hence,  the  omission  of  it  is  used 
to  denote  rapidity;  and  the  repetition  of  it  is  designed  to  retard 
and  to  aggravate.  The  reason  seems  to  be,  that,  in  the  former  case, 
Ihe  mind  is  supposed  to  be  hurried  so  fast  through  a  quick  succes- 
sion of  objects,  that  it  has  not  leisure  to  point  out  their  connexion; 
it  drops  the  copulatives  in  its  hurry ;  and  crowds  the  whole  series 
together,  as  if  it  were  but  one  object.  When  we  enumerate, 
with  a  view  to  aggravate,  the  mind  is  supposed  to  proceed  with  a 
more  slow  and  solemn  pace  ;  it  marks  fully  the  relation  of  each  ob- 
ject to  that  which  succeeds  it;  and,  by  joining  them  together  with 
several  copulatives,  makes  you  perceive,  that  the  objects,  though 
connected,  are  yet,  in  themselves,  distinct;  that  they  are  many,  not 
one.  Observe,  for  instance,  in  the  following  enumeration,  made  by 
the  apostle  Paul,  what  additional  weight  and  distinctness  is  given  to 
each  particular,  by  the  repetition  of  a  conjunction,  '  I  am  persuaded, 
that  neither  death,  nor  life,  nor  angels,  nor  principalities,  nor  pow- 
ers, nor  things  present,  nor  things  to  come,  nor  height,  nor  depth, 
nor  any  other  creature,  shall  be  able  to  separate  us  from  the  love  ot 
God.'  Rom.  viii.  38,  39.  So  much  with  regard  to  the  use  of  copu- 
latives. 

I  proceed  to  a  third  rule,  for  promoting  the  strength  of  a  sentence, 

of  a  sudden,  the  cavalry  make  their  appearance  behind  ;  other  bodies  of  men  are  seer. 
drawing  near;  the  enemies  turn  their  backs  ;  the  horse  meet  them  in  their  flight;  a 
great  slaughter  ensues." 

*  "  The  enemy,  having  easily  beat  off,  and  scattered  this  body  of  horse,  ran  dow» 
<rith  incredible  celerity  to  the  river  ;  so  that,  almost  at  one  moment  of  time,  they  a|» 
~»hxcI  to  be  in  the  woods,  and  in  the  river,  and  in  the  midst  of  our  troops." 


lect.  xii.]       STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.  127 

which  is,  to  dispose  of  the  capital  word  or  words,  in  that  place  of  the 
sentence,  where  they  will  make  the  fullest  impression.  That  such 
capital  words  there  are  in  every  sentence,  on  which  the  meaning 
principally  rests,  every  one  must  see ;  and  that  these  words  should 
possess  a  conspicuous  and  distinguished  place,  is  equally  plain.  In- 
deed, that  place  of  the  sentence  where  they  will  make  the  best 
figure,  whether  the  beginning,  or  the  end,  or  sometimes  even  in  the 
middle,  cannot,  as  far  as  I  know,  be  ascertained  by  any  precise  rule. 
This  must  vary  with  the  nature  of  the  sentence.  Perspicuity  must 
ever  be  studied  in  the  first  place ;  and  the  nature  of  our  language 
allows  no  great  liberty  in  the  choice  of  collocation.  For  the  most 
part,  with  us,  the  important  words  are  placed  in  the  beginning  of  the 
sentence.  So  Mr.  Addison:  'The  pleasures  of  the  imagination, 
taken  in  their  full  extent,  are  not  so  gross  as  those  of  sense,  nor  so 
refined  as  those  of  the  understanding.'  And  this,  indeed,  seems  the 
most  plain  and  natural  order,  to  place  that  in  the  front  which  is  the 
chief  object  of  the  proposition  we  are  laying  down.  Sometimes, 
however,  when  we  intend  to  give  weight  to  a  sentence,  it  is  of  advan- 
tage to  suspend  the  meaning  for  a  little,  and  then  bring  it  out  full  at 
the  close:  'Thus,'  says  Mr.  Pope,  'on  whatever  side  we  contem- 
plate Homer,  what  principally  strikes  us,  is,  his  wonderful  invention.' 
(Pref.  to  Homer.) 

The  Greek  and  Latin  writers  had  a  considerable  advantage  above 
us,  in  this  part  of  style.  By  the  great  liberty  of  inversion,  which 
their  languages  permitted,  they  could  choose  the  most  advantageous 
situation  for  every  word ;  and  had  it  thereby  in  their  power  to  give 
their  sentences  more  force.  Milton,  in  his  prose  works,  and  some 
other  of  our  old  English  writers,  endeavoured  to  imitate  them  in 
this.  But  the  forced  constructions  which  they  employed,  produced 
obscurity ;  and  the  genius  of  our  language,  as  it  is  now  written  and 
spoken,  will  not  admit  such  liberties.  Mr.  Gordon,  who  followed 
this  inverted  style,  in  his  translation  of  Tacitus,  has  sometimes  done 
such  violence  to  the  language,  as  even  to  appear  ridiculous ;  as  in 
this  expression :  'Into  this  hole  thrust  themselves,  three  Roman  sen- 
ators.' He  has  translated  so  simple  a  phrase  as,  'Nullum  ea  tem- 
pestate  helium,'  by,  '  War  at  that  time  there  was  none.'  However, 
within  certain  bounds,  and  to  a  limited  degree,  our  language  does 
admit  of  inversions;  and  they  are  practised  with  success  by  the  best 
writers.  So  Mr.  Pope,  speaking  of  Homer,  '  The  praise  of  judg- 
ment Virgil  has  justly  contested  with  him,  but  his  invention  remains 
yet  unrivalled.'  It  is  evident,that,  in  order  to  give  the  sentence  its 
due  force,  by  contrasting  properly  the  two  capital  words,  'judgment 
and  invention,'  the  arrangement  is  happier  than  it  he  had  follow- 
ed the  natural  order,  which  was,  'Virgil  has  justly  contested  with 
him  the  praise  of  judgment,  but  his  invention  remains  yet  unri- 
valled.' 

Some  writers  practise  this  degree  of  inversion,  which  our  language 
bears,  much  more  than  others;  Lord  Shaftesbury,  for  instance, 
much  more  than  Mr.  Addison;  and  to  this  sort  or  arrangement  is 
owing,  in  a  great  measure,  that  appearance  of  strength,  dignity,  and 


2S  STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES        [lect.  xzt 

7;iricd  harmony,  which  Lord  Shaftesbury'*  style  possesses.  This 
will  appear  from  the  following  sentences  of  his  Inquiry  into  Vir- 
tue ;  where  all  the  words  are  placed,  not  strictly  in  the  natural  01 
der,  but  with  that  artificial  construction,  which  may  give  the  period 
most  emphasis  and  grace  He  is  speaking  of  the  misery  of  vice. 
'This,  as  to  the  complete  immoral  state,  is,  what  of  their  own  ac- 
cord men  readily  remark.  Where  there  is  this  absolute  degenera 
cy,  this  total  apostacy  from  all  candour,  trust,  or  equity,  there  are 
few  who  do  not  see  and  acknowledge  the  misery  which  is  consequent 
Seldom  is  the  case  misconstrued,  when  at  worst.  The  misfortune 
is,  that  we  look  not  on  this  depravity,  nor  consider  how  it  stands,  in 
less  degrees.  As  if,  to  be  absolutely  immoral,  were,  indeed,  the 
greatest  misery ;  but,  to  be  so  in  a  little  degree,  should  be  no  misery 
or  harm  at  all.  Which  to  allow,  is  just  as  reasonable  as  to  own, 
that  'tis  the  greatest  ill  of  a  body  to  be  in  the  utmost  manner  maim- 
ed or  distorted ;  but  that  to  lose  the  use  only  of  one  limb,  or  to  be 
impaired  in  some  single  organ  or  member,  is  no  ill  worthy  the  least 
notice.'  (Vol.  ii.  p.  82.)  Here  is  no  violence  done  to  the  language, 
though  there  are  many  inversions.  All  is  stately  and  arranged  with 
art;  which  is  the  great  characteristic  of  this  author's  style. 

We  need  only  open  any  page  of  Mr.  Addison,  to  see  quite  a  dif- 
ferent order  in  the  construction  of  sentences.  'Our  sight  is  the 
most  perfect,  and  most  delightful  of  all  our  senses.  It  fills  the  mind 
with  the  largest  variety  of  ideas,  converses  with  its  objects  at  the 
greatest  distance,  and  continues  the  longest  in  action,  without  being 
tired,  or  satiated  with  its  proper  enjoyments.  The  sense  of  feeling 
can,  indeed,  give  us  a  notion  of  extension,  shape,  and  all  other  ideas 
that  enter  at  the  eye,  except  colours;  but  at  the  same  time,  it  is 
very  much  straitened  and  confined  in  its  operations,'  &c.  (Spectator, 
No.  411.)  In  this  strain  he  always  proceeds,  following  the  most 
natural  and  obvious  order  of  the  language:  and  if,  by  this  means, 
ne  has  less  pomp  and  majesty  than  Shaftesbury,  he  has,  in  return, 
more  nature,  more  ease  and  simplicity ;  which  are  beauties  of  a 
higher  order. 

But  whether  we  practise  inversion  or  not,  and  in  whatever  part  oi 
the  sentence  we  dispose  of  the  capital  words,  it  is  always  a  point  ol 
great  moment,  that  these  capital  words  shall  stand  clear  and  disen- 
tangled from  any  other  words  that  would  clog  them.  Thus,  when 
there  are  any  circumstances  of  time,  place,  or  other  limitations, 
which  the  principal  object  of  our  sentence  requires  to  have  connect- 
ed with  it,  we  must  take  especial  care  to  dispose  of  them,  so  as  not 
to  cloud  that  principal  object,  nor  to  bury  it  under  a  load  of  cir- 
cumstances. This  will  be  made  clearer  by  an  example.  Observe 
the  arrangement  of  the  following  sentence  in  Lord  Shaftesbury's 
Advice  to  an  Author.  He  is  speaking  of  modern  poets,  as  compared 
with  the  ancient: '  If,  whilst  the}'  profess  only  to  please,  they  secretly 
advise,  and  give  instruction,  they  may  now,  perhaps,  as  well  as  for- 
merly, be  esteemed,  wTith  justice,  the  best  and  rrr"<.  honourable 
among  authors.'  This  is  a  well  constructed  sentence.  It  contains 
a  great  many  circumstances  and  adverbs,  necessary  to  qualify  the 


I.ECT.  xii.]       STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.  129 

meaning;  only,  secretly,  as  well, perhaps,  now,  loith  justice,  for- 
merly ;  yet  these  are  placed  with  so  much  art,  as  neither  to  embar- 
rass nor  weaken  the  sentence;  while  that  which  is  the  capital  object 
in  it,  viz.  'Poets  being  justly  esteemed  the  best  and  most  honourable 
among  authors/  comes  out  in  the  conclusion  clear  and  detached,  and 
possesses  its  proper  place.  See,  now,  what  would  have  been  the  effect 
of  a  different  arrangement.  Suppose  him  to  have  placed  the  mem- 
bers of  the  sentence  thus  :  ;If,  whilst  they  profess  to  please  only3 
they  advise  and  give  instruction  secretly,  they  may  be  esteemed  the 
best  and  most  honourable  among  authors,  with  justice,  perhaps,  now 
as  well  as  formerly.'  Here  we  have  precisely  the  same  words  and 
the  same  sense  :  but,  by  means  of  the  circumstances  being  so  in- 
termingled as  to  clog  the  capital  words,  the  whole  becomes  perplex- 
ed, without  grace,  and  without  strength. 

A  fourth  rule,  for  constructing  sentences  with  proper  strength,  is, 
to  make  the  members  of  them  go  on  rising  and  growing  in  their  im- 
portance above  one  another.  This  sort  of  arrangement  is  called  a 
climax,  and  is  always  considered  as  a  beauty  in  composition.  From 
what  cause  it  pleases,  is  abundantly  evident.  In  all  things,  we  na- 
turally love  to  ascend  to  what  is  more  and  more  beautiful,  rather 
than  to  follow  the  retrograde  order.  Having  had  once  some  con- 
siderable object  set  before  us,  it  is  with  pain  we  are  pulled  back  to 
attend  to  an  inferior  circumstance.  '  Cavendum  est,'  says  Quintili 
an,  whose  authority  I  always  willingly  quote,  '  ne  decrescat  oratio, 
et  fortiori  subjungatur  aliquid  infirmius;  sicut,  sacrilego,  fur;  aut 
latroni  petulans.  Augeri  enim  debent  sentential  et  insurgere.'*  Of 
this  beauty,  in  the  construction  of  sentences,  the  orations  of  Cice- 
ro furnish  many  examples.  His  pompous  manner  naturally  led  him 
to  study  it;  and,  generally,  in  order  to  render  the  climax  perfect, 
he  makes  both  the  sense  and  the  sound  rise  together,  with  a  verv 
magnificent  swell.  So,  in  his  oration  for  Milo,  speaking  of  a  design 
of  Clodius's  for  assassinating  Pompey:  '  Atqui  si  res,  si  vir,  si  tein- 
pus  ulium  dignum  fuit,  certe  hoec  in  ilia  causa  summa  omnia  fuerunt. 
Insidiator  erat  in  Foro  collocatus,  atque  in  vestibulo  ipso  Senatus  ; 
ei  viro  autem  mors  parabatur,  cujus  in  vita  nitebatur  salus  civitatis; 
eo  porro  reipublicse  tempore,  quo  si  unus  ille  occidisse*,  non  hsec  solu m 
civitas,  sed  gentes  omnes  concidissent.'  The  following  instance, 
from  Lord  Bolingbroke,  is  also  beautiful :  '  This  decency,  this  grace, 
this  propriety  of  manners  to  character,  is  so  essential  to  princes  in 
particular,  that,  whenever  it  is  neglected,  their  virtues  lose  a  great 
degree  of  lustre,  and  their  defects  acquire  much  aggravation.  Nay, 
more;  by  neglecting  this  decency  and  this  grace,  and  for  want  of  a 
sufficient  regard  to  appearances,  even  their  virtues  may  betray  them 
into  failings,  their  failings  into  vices,  and  their  vices  into  habits  un- 
worthy of  princes,  and  unworthy  of  men.'    (Idea  of  a  Patriot  King.) 

*  '  Care  must  be  taken,  that  our  composition  shall  not  fall  off,  and  that  a  weaker  ex 
pression  shall  not  follow  one  of  more  strength  ;  as  if,  after  sacrilege  we  should  bring  ixj 
theft;  or,  having  mentioned  a  robbery,  we  should  subjoin  petulance.  Sentences  ough 
always  to  rise  and  grow.' 

17 


*30  STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.       [lect.  xii 

I  must  observe,  however,  that  this  sort  of  full  and  oratorical 
climax,  can  neither  be  always  obtained,  nor  ought  to  be  always 
sought  after.  Only  some  kinds  of  writing  admit  such  sentences: 
and,  to  study  them  too  frequently,  especially  if  the  subject  require 
not  so  much  pomp,  is  affected  and  disagreeable.  But  there  is  some- 
thing approaching  to  a  climax,  which  it  is  a  general  rule  to  study; 
'  ne  decrescat  oratio,'  as  Quintilian  speaks,  'et  ne  fortiori  subjun- 
gatur  aliquid  infirmius.'  A  weaker  assertion  or  proposition  should 
never  come  after  a  stronger  one ;  and  when  our  sentence  consists  of 
two  members,  the  longest  should,  generally,  be  the  concluding  one. 
There  is  a  twofold  reason  for  this  last  direction.  Periods,  thus  di- 
vided, are  pronounced  more  easily;  and  the  shortest  member  be- 
ing placed  first,  we  carry  it  more  readily  in  our  memory  as  we 
proceed  to  the  second,  and  see  the  connexion  of  the  two  more 
clearly.  Thus  to  say,  'when  our  passions  have  forsaken  us,  we 
flatter  ourselves  with  the  belief  that  we  have  forsaken  them,'  is  both 
more  graceful  and  more  clear,  than  to  begin  with  the  longest  part 
of  the  proposition :  '  we  flatter  ourselves  with  the  belief  that  we 
have  forsaken  our  passions,  when  they  have  forsaken  us.'  In  gen- 
eral, it  is  always  agreeable  to  find  a  sentence  rising  upon  us,  and 
growing  in  its  importance  to  the  very  last  word,  when  this  con- 
struction can  be  managed  without  affectation,  or  unseasonable  pomp. 
'If  we  rise  yet  higher,'  says  Mr.  Addison,  very  beautifully,  'and 
consider  the  fixed  stars  as  so  many  oceans  of  flame,  that  are  each  of 
them  attended  with  a  different  set  of  planets;  and  still  discover  new 
firmaments  and  new  lights,  that  are  sunk  farther  in  those  unfathom- 
able depths  of  tether;  we  are  lost  in  such  a  labyrinth  of  suns  and 
worlds,  and  confounded  with  the  magnificence  and  immensity  of 
Nature.'     (Spect.  No.  420.)     Hence  follows  clearly, 

A  fifth  rule  for  the  strength  of  sentences,  which  is,  to  avoid  con- 
cluding them  with  an  adverb,  a  preposition,  or  any  inconsiderable 
word.  Such  conclusions  are  always  enfeebling  and  degrading. 
There  are  sentences,  indeed,  where  the  stress  and  significancy  rest 
chiefly  upon  some  words  of  this  kind.  In  this  case,  they  are  not 
to  be  considered  as  circumstances,  but  as  the  capital  figures;  and 
ought,  in  propriety,  to  have  the  principal  place  allotted  them.  No 
fault,  for  instance,  can  be  found  with  this  sentence  of  Bolingbroke's: 
'  In  their  prosperity,  mjr  friends  shall  never  hear  of  me ;  in  their 
adversity,  always.'  Where  never  and  always,  being  emphatical 
words,  were  to  be  so  placed,  as  to  make  a  strong  impression.  But 
I  speak  now  of  those  inferior  parts  of  speech,  when  introduced  as 
circumstances,  or  as  qualifications  of  more  important  words.  In  such 
case,  they  should  always  be  disposed  of  in  the  least  conspicuous 
parts  of  the  period ;  and  so  classed  with  other  words  of  greater  dig- 
nity, as  to  be  kept  in  their  proper  secondary  station. 

Agreeably  to  this  rule,  we  should  always  avoid  concluding  with 
any  of  those  particles,  which  mark  the  cases  of  nouns,  of,  to,  from, 
with,  by.  For  instance,  it  is  a  great  deal  better  to  say,  'Avarice  is 
a  crime  of  which  wise  men  are  often  guilty,'  than  to  say,  'Avarice 
is  „  rrimn  which  wise  men  are  often  guilty  of.'    This  is  a  phraseology 


lect.  xii.]       STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES  131 

which  all  correct  writers  shun,  and  with  reason.  For  besides  the 
want  of  dignity  which  arises  from  those  monosyllables  at  the  end, 
the  imagination  cannot  avoid  resting,  for  a  little,  on  the  import  of 
the  word  which  closes  the  sentence:  and,  as  those  prepositions 
have  no  import  of  their  own,  but  only  serve  to  point  out  the  rela- 
tions of  other  words,  it  is  disagreeable  for  the  mind  to  be  left  pausing 
on  a  word,  which  does  not,  by  itself,  produce  any  idea,  nor  form 
any  picture  in  the  fancy. 

For  the  same  reason,  verbs  which  are  used  in  a  compound  sense, 
with  some  of  these  prepositions,  are,  though  not  so  bad,  yet  still 
not  so  beautiful  conclusions  of  a  period;  such  as,  bring  about,  lay 
hold  of,  come  over  to,  clear  up,  and  many  other  of  this  kind  ;  instead 
of  which,  if  we  can  employ  a  simple  verb,  it  always  terminates  the 
sentence  with  more  strength.  Even  the  pronoun  it,  though  it  has 
the  import  of  a  substantive  noun,  and  indeed  often  forces  itself  upon 
us  unavoidably,  yet,  when  we  want  to  give  dignity  to  a  sentence, 
should,  if  possible,  be  avoided  in  the  conclusion ;  more  especially, 
when  it  is  joined  with  some  of  the  prepositions,  as,  with  it,  in  it,  to 
it.  In  the  following  sentence  of  the  Spectator,  which  otherwise  is 
abundantly  noble,  the  bad  effect  of  this  close  is  sensible  :  '  There  is 
not  in  my  opinion,  a  more  pleasing  and  triumphant  consideration 
in  religion,  than  this,  of  the  perpetual  progress  which  the  soul  makes 
towards  the  perfection  of  its  nature,  without  ever  arriving  at  a  period 
in  it.'  (No.  111.)  How  much  more  graceful  the  sentence,  if  it  hpd 
been  so  constructed  as  to  close  with  the  word  period. 

Besides  particles  and  pronouns,  any  phrase  which  expresses  a 
circumstance  only,  always  brings  up  the  rear  of  a  sentence  with  a 
bad  grace.  We  may  judge  of  this,  by  the  following  sentence 
from  Lord  Bolingbroke:  (Letter  on  the  State  of  Parties  at  the 
Accession  of  King  George  T.)  'Let  me,  therefore,  conclude  by 
repeating,  that  division  has  caused  all  the  mischief  we  lament;  that 
union  alone  can  retrieve  it;  and  that  a  great  advance  towards  this 
union,  was  the  coalition  of  parties,  so  happily  begun,  so  successfully 
carried  on,  and  of  late  so  unaccountably  neglected;  to  say  no 
worse.'  This  last  phrase,  to  say  no  worse,  occasions  a  sad  falling  off 
at  the  end ;  so  much  the  more  unhappy,  as  the  rest  of  the  period  is 
conducted  after  the  manner  of  a  climax,  which  we  expect  to  find 
"rowing;  to  the  last. 

The  proper  disposition  of  such  circumstances  in  a  sentence,  is 
often  attended  with  considerable  trouble,  in  order  to  adjust  them  so, 
as  shall  consist  equally  with  the  perspicuity  and  the  grace  of  the 
period.  Though  necessary  parts,  they  are,  however,  like  unshapely 
stones  in  a  building,  which  try  the  skill  of  an  artist,  where  to  place 
them  with  the  least  offence.  '  Jungantur,'  says  Quintilian,  '  quo 
congruunt  maxime ;  sicut  in  structura  saxorum  rudium,  etiam  ipsa 
enormitas  mvenit  cui  applicari,  et  in  quo  possit  insistere.'* 

*  '  Let  them  be  inserted  wherever  the  happiest  place  for  them  can  be  found ;  as  in  a 
structure  composed  of  rough  stones,  there  are  always  places  where  the  most  irregular 
ir.d  unshapely  may  find  some  adjacent  one  to  which  it  can  *.&  joined,  and  some  basU 
o»  which  it  may  rest.' 


132  STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.       [jjbot.  xn 

The  close  is  always  an  unsuitable  place  for  them.  When  the 
sense  admits  it,  the  sooner  they  are  despatched,  generally  speaking, 
the  better;  that  the  more  important  and  significant  words  may  pos- 
sess the  last  place,  quite  disencumbered.  It  is  a  rule,  too,  never 
to  crowd  too  many  circumstances  together,  but  rather  to  intersperse 
them  in  different  parts  of  the  sentence,  joined  with  the  capital  words 
on  which  they  depend;  provided  that  care  be  taken,  as  I  before 
directed,  not  to  clog  those  capital  words  with  them.  For  instance, 
when  Dean  Swift  says,  'What  I  had  the  honour  of  mentioning  to 
your  Lordship,  some  time  ago,  in  conversation,  was  nut  a  new 
thought'  (Letter  to  the  Earl  of  Oxford.)  These  two  circumstan- 
ces, so?ne  time  ago,  and  in  conversation,  which  are  here  put  together, 
would  have  had  a  better  effect  disjoined  thus:  'What  I  had  the 
honour,  sometime  ago, of  mentioning  to  your  Lordship  in  conver- 
sation.' And  in  the  following  sentence  of  Lord  Bolingbroke's: 
(Remarks  on  the  History  of  England.)  '  A  monarchy,  limited  like 
ours,  may  be  placed,  for  aught  I  know,  as  it  has  been  often  repre- 
sented, just  in  the  middle  point,  from  whence  a  deviation  leads,  on 
the  one  hand,  to  tyranny,  and  on  the  other,  to  anarchy.'  The 
arrangement  would  have  been  happier  thus:  'A  monarchy,  limited 
like  ours,  may,  for  aught  I  know,  be  placed,  as  it  has  often  been 
represented,  just  in  the  middle  point,'  &c. 

I  shall  give  only  one  rule  more,  relating  to  the  strength  of  a 
sentence,  which  is,  that  in  the  members  of  a  sentence,  where  two 
things  are  compared  or  contrasted  to  each  other;  where  either  a  re 
semblance  or  an  opposition  is  intended  to  be  expressed  :  some  re 
semblance,  in  the  language  and  construction,  should  be  preserved. 
For  when  the  things  themselves  correspond  to  each  other,  we 
naturally  expect  to  find  the  words  corresponding  too.  We  are  dis 
appointed  when  it  is  otherwise;  and  the  comparison,  or  contrast, 
appears  more  imperfect.  Thus,  when  Lord  Bolingbroke  says. 
'  The  laughers  will  be  for  those  who  have  most  wit ;  the  serious  part 
of  mankind,  for  those  who  have  most  reason  on  their  side;'  (Dis- 
sert, on  Parties,  Pref.)  the  opposition  would  have  been  more  com- 
plete, if  he  had  said,  '  The  laughers  will  be  for  those  who  have 
most  wit ;  the  serious,  for  those  who  have  most  reason  on  their  side.* 
The  following  passage  from  Mr.  Pope's  preface  to  his  Homer,  fully 
exemplifies  the  rule  I  am  now  giving:  'Homer  was  the  greater 
genius;  Virgil,  the  better  artist;  in  the  one,  we  most  admire  the 
man;  in  the  other,  the  work.  Homer  hurries  us  with  a  command- 
ing impetuosity;  Virgil  leads  us  with  an  attractive  majesty.  Ho- 
mer scatters  with  a  generous  profusion ;  Virgil  bestows  with  a  care 
ful  magnificence.  Homer,  like  the  Nile,  pours  out  his  riches  with 
a  sudden  overflow;  Virgil,  like  a  river  in  its  banks,  with  a  constant 
stream.  And  when  we  look  upon  their  machines,  Homer  seems 
like  his  own  Jupiter,  in  his  terrors,  shaking  Olympus,  scattering  the 
lightnings,  and  firing  the  heavens;  Virgil,  like  the  same  power,  in 
his  benevolence,  counselling  with  the  gods,  laying  plans  for  empires, 
and  ordering  his  whole  creation.'  Periods  thus  constructed,  when 
introduced  with  propriety,  and  not  returning  too  often,  have  a  sen 


user,  xii.]       STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.  13b 

sible  beauty.  But  we  must  beware  of  carrying  our  attention  to  this 
beauty  too  far.  It  ought  only  to  be  occasionally  studied,  when 
comparison  or  opposition  of  objects  naturally  leads  to  it.  If  such 
a  construction  as  this  be  aimed  at  in  all  our  sentences,  it  leads  to  a 
disagreeble  uniformity;  produces  a  regularly  returning  clink  in 
the  period,  which  tires  the  ear;  and  plainly  discovers  affectation. 
Among  the  ancients,  the  style  of  Isocrates  is  faulty  in  this  respect; 
and  on  that  account,  by  some  of  their  best  critics,  particularly  by 
Dionysius  of  Halicarnassus,  he  is  severely  censured. 

This  finishes  what  I  had  to  say  concerning  sentences,  considered, 
with  respect  to  their  meaning,  under  the  three  heads  of  perspicuity, 
unity,  and  strength.  It  is  a  subject  on  which  I  have  insisted  fully, 
for  two  reasons:  First,  because  it  is  a  subject  which,  by  its  nature, 
can  be  rendered  more  didactic,  and  subjected  more  to  precise  rule, 
than  many  other  subjects  of  criticism;  and  next,  because  it  appears 
to  me  of  considerable  importance  and  use. 

For,  though  many  of  those  attentions  which  I  have  been  recom 
mending,  may  appear  minute,  yet  their  effect,  upon  writing  ann 
style,  is  much  greater  than  might  at  first  be  imagined.  A  senti- 
ment which  is  expressed  in  a  period,  clearly,  neatly,  and  happily 
arranged,  makes  always  a  stronger  impression  on  the  mind,  than 
one  that  is  feeble  or  embarrassed.  Every  one  feels  this  upon  a 
comparison:  and  if  the  effect  be  sensible  in  one  sentence,  how 
much  more  in  a  whole  discourse,  or  composition,  that  is  made  up 
of  such  sentences  ? 

The  fundamental  rule  of  the  construction  of  sentences,  and  into 
which  all  others  might  be  resolved,  undoubtedly  is,  to  communi- 
cate, in  the  clearest  and  most  natural  order,  the  ideas  which  we 
mean  to  transfuse  into  the  minds  of  others.  Every  arrangement 
that  does  most  justice  to  the  sense,  and  expresses  it  to  most  advan- 
tage, strikes  us  as  beautiful.  To  this  point  have  tended  all  the  rules 
I  have  given.  And,  indeed,  did  men  always  think  clearly,  and 
were  they,  at  the  same  time,  fully  masters  of  the  language  in  which 
they  write,  there  would  be  occasion  for  few  rules.  Their  sentences 
would  then,  of  course,  acquire  all  those  properties  of  precision, 
unity,  and  strength,  which  I  have  recommended.  For  we  may 
rest  assured,  that,  whenever  we  express  ourselves  ill,  there  is,besides 
the  mismanagement  of  language,  for  the  most  part,  some  mistake 
in  our  manner  of  conceiving  the  subject.  Embarrassed,  obscure, 
and  feeble  sentences,  are  generally,  if  not  always,  the  result  of  em- 
barrassed, obscure,  and  feeble  thought.  Thought  and  language 
act  ?nd  re-act  upon  each  other  mutually.  Logic  and  rhetoric  have 
here,  as  in  many  other  cases,  a  strict  connexion ;  and  he  that  is 
learning  to  arrange  his  sentences  with  accuracy  and  order,  is  learn- 
ing, at  the  same  time,  to  think  with  accuracy  and  order;  an  obser- 
vation which  alone  will  justify  all  the  care  and  attention  we  have 
bestowed  on  this  subject. 


(  133  a  ) 


Q,UESTIOJYS. 


What  does  our  author  term  the 
third  quality  of  a  correct  sentence ;  and 
what  does  he  mean  by  it  ?  01"  the  two 
former  qualities,  what  is  remarked ; 
but  why  is  more  than  these  requisite  ? 
What  is  the  first  rule  given  lor  pro- 
moting the  strength  of  a  sentence  1 
With  what  may  these,  sometimes,  be 
consistent,  but  they  always  have  what 
effect?  What  is  a  general  maxim? 
They  cannot  be  superfluous  without 
what;  and  what  follows?  What  ex- 
ample is  given  to  illustrate  this  remark? 
What,  therefore,  is  considered  one  of 
the  most  useful  of  exercises,  in  cor- 
recting what  we  have  written  ?  Here, 
what  should  be  employed ;  and  what 
will  our  sentences  acquire,  when  thus 
retrenched  ?  Of  what,  however,  must 
we  be  careful;  and  why?  To  what 
must  some  regard  be  had ;  and  what 
must  be  left?  Besides  redundant  words, 
>f  what  should  sentences  be  cleared  ? 
As  every  word  ought  to  present  a  new 
idea,  what  follows  ?  What  fault  stands 
opposed  to  this?  What  examples  are 
given  to  illustrate  this  remark  ?  In  both 
these  instances,  what  is  observed  of  the 
second  member  of  the  sentence ;  and 
what  remark  follows?  When  words 
are  multiplied,  without  a  corresponding 
multiplication  of  ideas,  what  is  their 
effect  ?  After  removing  superfluities, 
what  is  the  second  direction  given  for 
promoting  the  strength  of  a  sentence  ? 
Of  these  little  words,  what  is  remarked  ? 
Why  cannot  a  particular  set  of  rules 
respecting  them  be  given?  What,  then, 
must  here  direct  us?  Of  the  splitting 
of  particles,  what  is  observed  ?  What 
example  is  given?  In  such  instances 
what  effect  is  produced  ;  and  why  are 
we,  in  thought,  put  to  a  stand  ?  What 
do  some  writers  needlesely  multiply? 
What  example  is  given?  Where  is 
6uch  a  style  proper  ?  But,  in  the  ordi- 
nary current  of  discourse,  how  should 
vre  express  ourselves?  Where  do  other 
writers  make  it  a  practice  of  omitting 
the  relative  ?  What  examples  are 
given  ?  Of  this  eliptical  style,  what  is 
remarked  ?  How,  therefore,  should 
these  sentences  be  written?  What  is 
the  first  observation,  made  on  the  copu- 
lative and  ;  and  what  sort  of  effect  has 
it  ?  To  illustrate  this  remark,  from 
whom  is  an  example  taken;  and  of 
what  is  he  speaKing  ?  Repeat  the  pas- 


sage. Hen*  are  how  many  avds?  Of 
this  agreeable  writer,  what  is  farther 
remarked  ?  Of  a  writer,  so  accurate  as 
Dean  Swift,  what  is  strange  ?  Repeat 
the  sentence;  and  of  it,  what  is  remark- 
ed ?  What,  in  the  next  place,  is  worthy 
of  observation?  Who  makes  this  re- 
mark ;  what  examples  are  given ;  and 
what  is  said  of  them?  Hence,  what  iol- 
lows?  What  examples  from  Lord  Bo- 
lingbroke,  and  from  Caesar,  are  given  to 
illustrate  this  observation?  Of  the  latter 
illustration,  what  is  remarked?  Why 
is  this  attention  to  the  copulative  of 
considerable  importance  to  all  who 
study  eloquence?  Hence,  for  what 
purpose,  are  the  omission,  and  the  re- 
petition of  it,  respectively  used ;  ami  for 
what  reason  ?  To  illustrate  this  more 
fully,  what  example  is  given  from  the 
writings  of  the  apostle  Paul  ?  What  is 
the  third  rule  for  promoting  the  strength 
of  a  sentence  ?  WThat  must  every  one 
see;  and  what  is  equally  plain?  What, 
however,  cannot  be  ascertained  by  any 
precise  rule  ?  With  what  must  this 
vary?  What  must  be  studied,  in  the 
first  place ;  and  of  the  nature  of  our 
language,  what  is  remarked?  In  our 
language,  where,  for  the  most  part, 
are  the  important  words  placed?  To 
illustrate  this  remark,  what  example  is 
given ;  and  of  this  order,  what  is  ob- 
served? What,  however,  is  sometimes 
advantageous?  WTiat  example  is 
given  from  Mr.  Pope  ?  From  the  great 
liberty  of  inversion,  what  advantage 
did  the  Greek  and  Latin  writers  enjoy? 
Who  endeavoured  to  imitate  them  in 
this  ?  What  was  the  con?? quence ;  ant1 
why  ?  What  two  instances  are  giver, 
from  Mr.  Gordon,  to  illustrate  this  re- 
mark ?  But,  notwithstanding  these  in- 
stances, of  our  language,  what  is  re- 
marked ?  What  example  illustrates 
this  remark;  and  of  it,  what  is  evident  ? 
Of  some  writers,  what  is  observed? 
what  instance  is  given  ;  and  to  it,  what 
is  owing  ?  From  what  will  this  appear? 
Of  what  is  he  speaking  ?  Repeat  the 
passage.  Of  this  passage,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  On  opening  any  page  of  Mr. 
Addison,  what  will  we  see  ?  What  ex- 
ample is  given  ?  How  does  this  style 
compare  with  the  style  of  Lord 
Shaftesbury  ? 

Whether  we  practice  inversion   or 
not.  what  is  a  point  of  great  moment? 


LECT.  XII.] 


QUESTIONS. 


133  b 


How  is  this  remark  illustrated  ?  How 
will  this  be  made  clearer?  Repeat  it.  Of 
this  sentence,  what  is  observed?  What 
does  it  contain ;  yet  of  these,  what  is 
remarked?  Further  to  illustrate  this 
subject,  what  different  arrangement  is 
given ;  and  what  is  said  of  it  ?  What 
is  the  fourth  rule  for  constructing  sen- 
tences with  strength  ?  What  is  it  call- 
ed ;  and  how  is  it  always  considered  ? 
Why  does  this  sort  of  arrangement 
please?  What  says  Quintilian  ?  Of  this 
beauty,  whose  orations  furnish  us  with 
many  examples?  What  naturally  led 
hiiu  to  the  study  of  it ;  and  what  does 
he  generally  do?  What  instance  is 
given  from  him,  and  also  from  Lord 
Bolingbroke?  What  observation  must, 
however,  be  made  ?  What  remark  fol- 
lows ?  What  is  there  approaching  to  a 
climax,  which  it  is  a  general  rule  to 
follow  ?  What  twofold  reason  is  there 
for  this  last  direction  ?  What  illustra- 
tion follows?  In  general,  what  is  al- 
ways agreeable  ?  What  illustration  of 
this  remark  is  given  from  Mr.  Addison? 
What  is  the  fifth  rule  for  the  strength 
of  sentences?  Of  such  conclusions, 
what  is  observed  ?  There  are  sentences 
of  what  kind ;  and  in  this  case,  what 
follows  ?  What  illustration  is  given 
from  Lord  Bolingbroke  ?  Of  what  parts 
of  speech  does  our  author  now  speak  ; 
and  how  should  they  always  be  dispo- 
sed? Agreeably  to  this  rule,  what 
should  we  always  avoid?  What  in- 
stance is  noticed  ?  Why  do  all  correct 
writers  shun  this  phraseology  ?  For  the 
same  reason,  what  verbs  should  we 
not  employ  in  closing  sentences?  In 
preference  to  which,  what  should  be 
used  ?  Of  the  pronoun  it,  as  a  closing 
word,  what  is  remarked ;  and  when, 
especially,  should  it  be  avoided?  In 
what  noble  sentence  from  the  Specta- 
tor, is  the  bad  effect  of  this  close  sen 
eibiy  perceived?  With  what  word 
should  it  have  closed?  Besides  parti 
cles  and  pronouns,  what  always  brings 
up  the  rear  of  a  sentence  with  a  bad 
grace  ?  By  what  senteuce  may  we 
judge  of  this?  Of  the  \  phrase,  to 
say  no  more,  what  is  obsy  ■  %  'd  ?  With 
what  is  the  proper  disposition  of  such 
circumstances  in  a  sentence  often  at- 
tended ;  and  why  ?  What  says  Quin- 
tilian ?  When  the  sense  admits  it, 
where  should  they  be  placed  ?  On  this 
subject,  what  rule  is  given ;  and  with 
what  provision?  What  instance  follows? 


How  would  the  two  circumstances, 
some  time  ago,  and  in  conversation, 
have  had  a  better  effect?  What  fur- 
ther illustration  e  given  from  Lord 
Bolingbroke ;  and  how  may  the  ar- 
rangement be  improved  ?  What  is  the 
last  rule  given,  relating  to  the  strength 
of  a  sentence?  Why  is  this  rule  given  ? 
When  it  is  otherwise,  what  is  the  con- 
sequence ?  Thus,  what  says  Lord  Bo- 
lingbroke ;  and  how  might  the  opposi- 
tion have  been  rendered  more  complete'2 
Repeat  the  passage  from  Mr.  Pope's 
preface  to  his  Homer,  which  fully  ex- 
emplifies this  rule?  Of  periods,  thus 
constructed,  what  is  remarked  ;  but  ol 
what  must  we  beware?  When  only 
ought  it  to  be  studied  ?  If  such  a  con- 
struction be  aimed  at  in  all  our  senten- 
ces, what  will  be  the  consequence  ?  01 
the  style  of  Isocrates,  among  the  an- 
cients, what  is  remarked?  This  re- 
mark, finishes  what?  For  what  two 
reasons  has  our  author  insisted  on  this 
subject  fully;  and  why?  How  is  this 
illustrated?  In  what  does  every  one 
feel  this  ;  and  what  follows  ?  What  ie 
the  fundamental  rule  for  the  construc- 
tion of  sentences?  What  arrangements 
strike  us  as  beautiful ;  and  to  this  point, 
what  have  tended  ?  Under  what  cir- 
cumstances, would  there  be  occasion 
for  few  rules  ?  What  properties  would 
their  sentences  then  acquire;  and  why? 
Of  what  are  embarrassed,  obscure,  and 
feeble  sentences,  the  result?  What  have 
hereastrictconnexion;  and  what  follows? 


ANALYSIS. 

Strength. 

1.  Redundant  words. 

A.  Redundant  members. 

2.  Copulatives,  relatives,  and  other 

particles. 

A.  The  splitting  of  particles. 

B.  The  multiplication,  and  omis- 

sion of  them. 

c.  The  copulative  and. 

d.  Copulatives  further  illustrated. 

3.  The  proper  disposition  of  the  Cu  pi- 

tal  words. 

A.  The  advantages  of  the  GreeK 

and  Latin  languages. 

B.  The  subject  further  illustrated 

4.  The  order  of  succession  in  sentences. 

5.  Sentences  not  to  be  concluded  with 

adverbs,  &c. 

6.  Similarity  of  language  in  contrast 

ed  sentences. 

7.  A  fundamental  rule. 


(   134  ) 

LECTURE  XIII. 

STRUCTURE  OF  SENTENCES.. ..HARMONY. 

Hitherto  we  have  considered  sentences,  with  respect  to  theu 
meaning,  under  the  heads  of  perspicuity,  unity,  and  strength.  We 
are  now  to  consider  them,  with  respect  to  their  sound,  their  har- 
mony or  agreeableness  to  the  ear ;  which  was  the  last  quality  be- 
longing to  them  that  I  proposed  to  treat  of. 

Sound  is  a  quality  much  inferior  to  sense  ;  yet  such  as  must  not 
be  disregarded.  For,  as  long  as  sounds  are  the  vehicle  of  coiivej-- 
ance  for  our  ideas,  there  will  be  always  a  very  considerable  connex- 
ion between  the  idea  which  is  conveyed,  and  the  nature  of  the  sound 
which  conveys  it.  Pleasing  ideas  can  hardly  be  transmitted  to  the 
mind  by  means  of  harsh  and  disagreeable  sounds.  The  imagina 
tion  revolts  as  soon  as  it  hears  them  uttered.  '  Nihil,'  says  Quintilian, 
'potest  intrare  in  affectum,  quod  in  aure,  velut  quodam  vestibule 
statimoffendit.'*  Music  has  naturally  a  great  power  overall  men,  to 
prompt  and  facilitate  certain  emotions;  insomuch,  that  there  are 
hardly  any  dispositions  which  we  wish  to  raise  in  others,  but  certain 
sounds  may  be  found  concordant  to  those  dispositions,  and  tending 
to  promote  them.  Now,  language  may,  in  some  degree,  be  ren- 
dered capable  of  this  power  of  music;  a  circumstance  which  must 
needs  heighten  our  idea  of  language  as  a  wonderful  invention.  Not 
content  with  simply  interpreting  our  ideas  to  others,  it  can  give  them 
those  ideas  enforced  by  corresponding  sounds;  and,  to  the  pleasure 
of  communicating  thought,  can  add  the  new  and  separate  pleasure 
of  melody. 

In  the  harmony  of  periods,  two  things  may  be  considered.  First, 
agreeable  sound,  or  modulation  in  general,  without  any  particular 
expression :  Next,  the  sound  so  ordered,  as  to  become  expressive 
of  the  sense.  The  first  is  the  more  common;  the  second,  the  high- 
er beauty. 

First,  let  us  consider  agreeable  sound,  in  general,  as  the  proper- 
ty of  a  well-constructed  sentence:  and,  as  it  was  of  prose  sentences 
we  have  hitherto  treated,  we  shall  confine  ourselves  to  them  under 
this  head.  This  beauty  of  musical  construction  in  prose,  it  is  plain, 
will  depend  upon  two  things;  the  choice  cf  words,  and  the  arrange- 
ment of  them. 

I  begin  with  the  choice  of  words;  on  which  head,  there  is  no* 
much  to  be  said,  unless  I  were  to  descend  into  a  tedious  and  fi  ivo- 
lous  detail  concerning  the  powers  of  the  several  letters,  or  simple 
sounds,  of  which  speech  is  composed.     It  is  evident,  that  words 

*  Nothing  can  enter  into  the  affections,  which  stumbles  at  the  threshold  by  offea 
ding  the  ear.' 


lect.  xin.]       HARMONY  OF  SENTENCES.  135 

are  most  agreeable  to  the  ear  which  are  composed  of  smooth  and 
'"quid  sounds,  where  there  is  a  proper  intermixture  of  vowels  and 
consonants ;  without  too  many  harsh  consonants  rubbing  against  each 
other;  or  too  many  open  vowels  in  succession,  to  cause  a  hiatus,  or 
disagreeable  aperture  of  the  mouth.  It  may  always  be  assumed  as 
a  principle,  that  whatever  sounds  are  difficult  in  pronunciation,  are, 
in  the  same  proportion,  harsh  and  painful  to  the  ear.  Vowels  give 
softness;  consonants,  strength  to  the  sound  of  words.  The  musio 
of  language  requires  a  just  proportion  of  both;  and  will  be  hurt, 
will  be  rendered  either  grating  or  effeminate,by  an  excess  of  either. 
Long  words  are  commonly  more  agreeable  to  the  ear  than  mono- 
syllables. Theyplease  it  by  the  composition,  or  succession  of  sounds 
which  they  present  to  it:  and  accordingly,  the  most  musical  lan- 
guages abound  most  in  them.  Among  words  of  any  length,  those 
are  the  most  musical,  which  do  not  run  wholly  either  upon  long  or 
short  syllables,  but  are  composed  of  an  intermixture  of  them ;  such  as 
repent,  produce,  velocity,  celerity,  independent,  impetuosity. 

The  next  head,  respecting  the  harmony  which  results  from  a 
proper  arrangement  of  the  words  and  members  of  a  period,  is  more 
complex,  and  of  greater  nicety.  For,  let  the  words  themselves  be 
ever  so  well  chosen,  and  well  sounding,  yet,  if  they  be  ill  disposed, 
the  music  of  the  sentence  is  utterly  lost.  In  the  harmonious  struc- 
ture and  disposition  of  periods,  no  writer  whatever,  ancient  or 
modern,  equals  Cicero.  He  had  studied  this  with  care;  and  was 
fond,  perhaps  to  excess,  of  what  he  calls,  the  '  Plena  ac  numerosa 
oratio.'  We  need  only  open  his  writings  to  find  instances  that  will 
render  the  effect  of  musical  language  sensible  to  every  ear.  What, 
for  example,  can  be  more  full,  round,  and  swelling,  than  the  follow- 
ing sentence  of  the  4th  Oration  against  Catiline  ?  '  Cogitate  quan- 
tis  labonbus  fundatum  imperium,  quanta  virtute  stabilitam  liberta- 
tem,  quanta  Deorum  benignitate  auctas  exaggeratasque  fortunas, 
una  nox  pene  delerit.'  In  English,  we  may  take,  for  an  instance  of 
a  musical  sentence,  the  following  from  Milton,  in  his  Treatise  on 
Education :  '  We  shall  conduct  you  to  a  hill-side,  laborious  indeed, 
at  the  first  ascent;  but  else,  so  smooth,  so  green,  so  full  of  goodly 
prospects,  and  melodious  sounds,  on  every  side,  that  the  harp  of  Or- 
pheus was  not  more  charming.'  Every  thing  in  this  sentence  con- 
spires to  promote  the  harmony.  The  words  are  happily  chosen ; 
full  of  liquid  and  soft  sounds;  laborious,  smooth,  green,  goodly ,  me- 
lodious, charming :  and  these  words  so  artfully  arranged,  that  were 
we  to  alter  the  collocation  of  any  one  "of  them,  we  should,  present- 
ly, be  sensible  of  the  melody  suffering.  For,  let  us  observe,  how 
finely  the  members  of  the  period  swell  one  above  another.  '  So 
smooth,  so  green' — '  so  full  of  goodly  prospects,  and  melodious 
sounds  on  every  side;' — till  the  ear,  prepared  by  this  gradual  rise, 
is  conducted  to  that  full  close  on  which  it  rests  with  pleasure; — '  that 
the  harp  of  Orpheus  was  not  more  charming.' 

The  structure  of  periods,  then,  being  susceptible  of  a  very  sen- 
sible melody,  our  next  inquiry  should  be,  how  this  melodious 
structure  is  formed,  what  are  the  principles  of  it,  and  by  what  laws 


136  HARMONY  OF  SENTENCES.        [legs-,  xih 

it  is  regulated  ?  And,  upon  this  subject,  were  I  to  follow  the  ancient 
rhetoricians,  it  would  be  easy  to  give  a  great  variety  of  rules.  For 
here  they  have  entered  into  a  very  minute  and  particular  detail*, 
more  particular,  indeed,  than  on  any  other  head  that  regards  lan- 
guage. They  hold,  that  to  prose  as  well  as  to  verse,  there  belong 
certain  numbers,  less  strict,  indeed,  yet  such  as  can  be  ascertained 
by  rule.  They  go  so  far  as  to  specify  the  feet  as  they  are  called, 
that  is,  the  succession  of  long  and  short  syllables,  which  should  en- 
ter into  the  different  members  of  a  sentence,  and  to  show  what  the 
effect  of  each  of  these  will  be.  Wherever  they  treat  of  the  struc- 
ture of  sentences,  it  is  always  the  music  of  them  that  makes  the 
principal  object.  Cicero  and  Quintilian  are  full  of  this.  The 
other  qualities  of  precision,  unity,  and  strength,  which  we  consider 
as  of  chief  importance,  they  handle  slightly ;  but  when  they  come 
to  the  'junctura  et  numerusj  the  modulation  and  harmony,  there 
they  are  copious.  Dionysius  of  Halicarnassus,  one  of  the  most  ju- 
dicious critics  of  antiquity,  has  written  a  treatise  on  the  Composition 
of  Words  in  a  Sentence,  which  is  altogether  confined  to  their  musical 
effect.  He  makes  the  excellency  of  a  sentence  to  consist  in  four 
things ;  first,  in  the  sweetness  of  single  sounds ;  secondly,  in  the  com- 
position of  sounds,  that  is,  the  numbers  or  feet;  thirdly,  in  change  or 
variety  of  sound;  and  fourthly,  in  sound  suited  to  the  sense.  On  all 
these  points  he  writes  with  great  accuracy  and  refinement:  and  is  very 
worthy  of  being  consulted;  though  were  one  now  to  write  a  book 
on  the  structure  of  sentences,  we  should  expect  to  find  the  subject 
treated  of  in  a  more  extensive  manner. 

In  modern  times,  this  whole  subject  of  the  musical  structure  of 
discourse,  it  is  plain,  has  been  much  less  studied;  and  indeed,  for 
several  reasons,  can  be  much  less  subjected  to  rule.  The  reasons, 
it  will  be  necessary  to  give,  both  to  justify  my  not  following  the 
tract  of  the  ancient  rhetoricians  on  this  subject,  and  to  show  how  it 
has  come  to  pass,  that  a  part  of  composition,  which  once  made  so 
conspicuous  a  figure,  now  draws  much  less  attention. 

In  the  first  place,  the  ancient  languages,  I  mean  the  Greek  and 
the  Roman,  were  much  more  susceptible  than  ours,  of  the  graces 
and  the  powers  of  melody.  The  quantities  of  their  syllables  were 
more  fixed  and  determined  ;  their  words  were  longer  and  more  sono- 
rous ;  their  method  of  varying  the  terminations  of  nouns  and  verbs, 
both  introduced  a  greater  variety  of  liquid  sounds,and  freed  them 
from  that  multiplicity  of  little  auxiliary  words  which  we  are  oblig- 
ed to  employ ;  and  what  is  of  the  greatest  consequence,  the  in- 
versions which  thevr  languages  allowed,  gave  them  the  power  of  pla- 
cing their  words  in  whatever  order  was  most  suited  to  a  musical  ar- 
rangement. All  these  were  great  advantages  which  they  enjoyed 
above  us,  for  harmony  of  period. 

In  the  next  place,  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  the  former  especially, 
were,  in  truth,  much  more  musical  nations  than  we;  their  genius 
was  more  turned  to  delight  in  the  melody  of  speech.  Music  is 
known  to  have  been  a  more  extensive  art  among  them  thac  it  is 
with  us;  more  generally  studied,  and  applied  to  a  greater  variety 


lect.  xin.]       HARMONY  OF  SENTENCES.  137 

of  objects.  Several  learned  men,  particularly  the  Abbe  d  j  Bos, 
:n  his  Reflections  on  Poetry  and  Painting,  have  clearly  proved, 
that  the  theatrical  compositions  of  the  ancients,  both  their  tragedies 
and  comedies,  were  set  to  a  kind  of  music.  Whence  the  modos 
fecit,  and  the  tibiis  dextris  et  sinistris,  prefixed  to  the  editions  of 
Terence's  plays.  All  sort  of  declamation  and  public  speaking,  was 
canied  on  by  them  in  a  much  more  musical  tone  than  it  is  among 
us.  It  approached  to  a  kind  of  chanting  or  recitative.  Among  the 
Athenians,  there  was  what  was  called  the  Nomic  melody ;  or  a  par- 
ticular measure  prescribed  to  the  public  officers,  in  which  they  were 
to  promulgate  the  laws  to  the  people ;  lest,  by  reading  them  with 
improper  tones,  the  laws  might  be  exposed  to  contempt.  Among 
the  Romans,  there  is  a  noted  story  of  C.  Gracchus,  when  he  was 
declaiming  in  public,  having  a  musician  standing  at  his  back,  in  or- 
der to  give  him  the  proper  tones  with  a  pipe  or  flute.  Even  when 
pronouncing  those  terrible  tribunitial  harangues,  by  which  he  in 
flamed  the  one  half  of  the  citizens  of  Rome  against  the  other; 
this  attention  to  the  music  of  speech  was,  in  those  times,  it 
seems,  thought  necessary  to  success.  Quintilian,  though  he  con- 
demns the  excess  of  this  sort  of  pronunciation,  yet  allows  a  '  can- 
tus  obscurior'  to  be  a  beauty  in  a  public  speaker.  Hence,  that 
variety  of  accents,  acute,  grave,  and  circumflex,  which  we  find 
marked  upon  the  Greek  syllables,  to  express,  not  the  quantity  of 
them,  but  the  tone  in  which  they  were  to  be  spoken;  the  appli- 
cation of  which  is  now  wholly  unknown  to  us.  And  though  the  Ro- 
mans did  not  mark  those  accents  in  their  writing,  yet  it  appears  from 
Quintilian,  that  they  used  them  in  pronunciation : '  Quantum  quale,' 
says  he/comparantes  gravi,  interrogantes  acuto  tenore  concludu^.' 
As,  music,  then,  was  an  object  much  more  attended  to  in  speech, 
among  the  Greeks  and  Romans, than  it  is  with  us;  as,  in  all  kinds  of 
public  speaking,  they  employed  a  much  greater  variety  of  notes, 
of  tones  or  inflections  of  voice,  than  we  use;  this  is  one  clear  rea- 
son of  their  paying  a  greater  attention  to  that  construction  of  sen- 
tences, which  might  best  suit  this  musical  pronunciation. 

It  is  farther  known,  that,  in  consequence  of  the  genius  of  their 
languages,  and  of  their  manner  of  pronouncing  them,  the  musical 
arrangement  of  sentences  did,  in  fact,  produce  a  greater  effect  in 
public  speaking  among  them,  than  it  could  possibly  do  in  any  mo 
dern  oration ;  another  reason  why  it  deserved  to  be  more  studied. 
Cicero,  in  his  treatise,  entitled,  Orator,  tells  us, *  Condones  ssepe 
exclamare  vidi,  cum  verba  apte  cecidissent.  Id  enim  expectant 
aures.'*  And  he  gives  a  remarkable  instance  of  the  effect  of  an 
harmonious  period  upon  a  whole  assembly,  from  a  sentence  of  one 
of  Carbo's  orations,  spoken  in  his  hearing.  The  sentence  was, 
i  Patris  dictum  sapiens  temeritas  filii  comprobavit.'  By  means  of 
the  sound  of  which,  alone,  he  tells  us, '  Tantus  clamor  concionis 

*  'I  Jv^e  often  been  witness  to  bursts  of  exclamation  in  the  public  assemblies,  when 
sentences  closed  musically  ;  for  that  is  a  pleasure  which  the  ear  expects.' 

18 


'  38  HARMONY  OF  SENTENCES.       [iect.  xixi. 

excitatus  est,  ut  prorsus  admirable  esset.'  He  makes  us  remark  the 
feet  of  which  these  words  consist,  to  which  he  ascrihes  the  power 
of  the  melody;  and  shows  how,  by  altering  the  collocation,  the 
whole  effect  would  be  lost;  as  thus:  'Patris  dictum  sapiens  com- 
probavit  temeritas  filii.'  Now  though  it  be  true  that  Carbo's  sen- 
tence is  extremely  musical,  and  would  be  agreeable,  at  this  day,  to 
an  audience,  yet  I  cannot  believe  that  an  English  sentence,  equally 
harmonious,  would,  by  its  harmony  alone,  produce  any  such  effect 
on  a  British  audience,  or  excite  any  such  wonderful  applause  and 
admiration,  as  Cicero  informs  us  this  of  Carbo  produced.  Our 
northern  ears  are  too  coarse  and  obtuse.  The  melody  of  speech 
has  less  power  over  us;  and  by  our  simpler  and  plainer  method  of 
uttering  words,  speech  is,  in  truth,  accompanied  with  less  melody 
than  it  was  among  the  Greeks  and  Romans.* 

For  these  reasons,  I  am  of  opinion,  that  it  is  in  vain  to  think  of 
bestowing  the  same  attention  upon  the  harmonious  structure  of 
our  sentences,  that  was  bestowed  by  these  ancient  nations.  The 
doctrine  of  the  Greek  and  Roman  critics,  on  *his  head,  has  misled 
some  to  imagine,  that  it  might  be  equally  applied  to  our  tongue; 
and  that  our  prose  writing  might  be  regulated  by  spondees  and 
trochees,  and  iambus's  and  paeons,  and  other  metrical  feet.  But 
first,  our  words  cannot  be  measured,  or,  at  least,  can  be  measured 
very  imperfectly  by  any  feet  of  this  kind.  For,  the  quantity,  the 
length,  and  shortness  of  our  syllables,  is  far  from  being  so  fixed 
and  subjected  to  rule,  as  in  the  Greek  and  Roman  tongues;  but 
very  often  left  arbitrary,  and  determined  by  the  emphasis,  and  the 
sense.  Next,  though  our  prose  could  admit  of  such  metrical  regu- 
lation, yet,  from  our  plainer  method  of  pronouncing  all  sorts  of  dis- 
course, the  effect  would  not  be  at  all  so  sensible  to  the  eai,  nor  be 
relished  with  so  much  pleasure,  as  among  the  Greeks  and  Romans  : 
and,  lastly,  this  whole  doctrine  about  the  measures  and  numbers  of 
prose,  even  as  it  is  delivered  by  the  ancient  rhetoricians  themselves, 
is,  in  truth,  in  a  great  measure,  loose  and  uncertain.  It  appears, 
indeed,  that  the  melody  of  discourse  was  a  matter  of  infinitely  more 
attention  to  them,  than  ever  it  has  been  to  the  moderns.  But,  though 
they  write  a  great  deal  about  it,  they  have  never  been  able  to  re 
duce  it  to  any  rules  which  could  be  of  real  use  in  practice.  If  we 
consult  Cicero's  Orator,  where  this  point  is  discussed  with  the  most 
minuteness,  we  shall  see  how  much  these  ancient  critics  differed 
from  one  another,  about  the  feet  proper  for  the  conclusion,  and 
other  parts  of  a  sentence;  and  how  much,  after  all,  was  left  to  the 
judgment  of  the  ear.  Nor, indeed,  is  it  possible  to  give  precise  rales 
concerning  this  matter,  in  any  language ;  as  all  prose  composition  must 
be  allowed  to  run  loose  in  its  numbers;  and  according  as  the  tcnourofa 
discourse  varies,  the  modulation  of  sentences  must  vary  infinitely. 

"  '  In  versa  quidem,  theatra  tota  exclamant  si  fait  una  syllaba  aut  brevior  aut 
longi^**.  Nee  ver6  multitudo  pedes  novit,  nee  ullos  numeros  tenet ;  nee  illud  quod 
offenctit,  aut  cur,  aut  in  quo  offendat,  intelligit ;  et  tarnen  omnium  longitudinum  et 
brevitatura  in  sonis  sicut  acutarum,  graviumque  vocum,  judicium  ipsa  natura  t* 
auribus  nostris  collocavit '  Cicero.  Orator,  c.  5. 


lect  xiii.]       HARMONY  OF  SENTENCES.  13-* 

But,  although  I  apprehend  that  this  musical  arrangement  can- 
not be  reduced  into  a  system,  I  am  far  from  thinking  that  it  is  a 
quality  to  be  neglected  in  composition.  On  the  contrary,  I  hold 
its  effect  to  be  very  considerable;  and  that  every  one  who  studies 
to  write  with  grace,  much  more,  who  seeks  to  pronounce  in  public 
with  success,  will  be  obliged  to  attend  to  it  not  a  little.  But  it  is 
his  ear,  cultivated  by  attention  and  practice,  that  must  chiefly  di- 
rect him  ;  for  any  rules  that  can  be  given  on  this  subject,  are 
very  general.  Some  rules,  however,  there  are,  which  may  be  of 
use  to  form  the  ear  to  the  proper  harmony  of  discourse.  I  proceed 
to  mention  such  as  appear  to  me  most  material. 

There  are  two  things  on  which  the  music  of  a  sentence  chiefly 
depends.  These  are  the  proper  distribution  of  the  several  members 
of  it;  and,  the  close  or  cadence  of  the  whole. 

First,  I  say,  the  distribution  of  the  several  members  is  to  be 
carefully  attended  to.  It  is  of  importance  to  observe,  that 
whatever  is  easy  and  agreeable  to  the  organs  of  speech,  always 
sounds  grateful  to  the  ear.  While  a  period  is  going  on,  the  termi- 
nation of  each  of  its  members  forms  a  pause,  or  rest,  in  pronounc- 
ing: and  these  rests  should  be  so  distributed  as  to  make  the  course 
of  the  breathing  easy,  and,  at  the  same  time,  should  fall  at  such 
distances,  as  to  bear  a  certain  musical  proportion  to  each  other. 
This  will  be  best  illustrated  by  examples.  The  following  sentence 
is  from  Archbishop  Tillotson :  '  This  discourse  concerning  the  easi- 
ness of  God's  commands,  does,  all  along,  suppose  and  acknow- 
ledge the  difficulties  of  the  first  entrance  upon  a  religious  course  ; 
except  only  in  those  persons  who  have  had  the  happiness  to  be 
trained  up  to  religion  by  the  easy  and  insensible  degrees  of  a  pious 
■s.nd  virtuous  education.'  Here  there  is  no  harmony;  nay,  thete  is 
some  degree  of  harshness  and  unpleasantness;  owing  principally  to 
this,  that  there  is,  properly,  no  more  than  one  pause  or  rest  in 
the  sentence,  fallingbetwixtthe  two  members  into  which  it  is  divided, 
each  of  which  is  so  long  as  to  occasion  a  considerable  stretch  of  the 
^reath  in  pronouncing  it. 

Observe,  now,  on  the  other  hand,  the  ease  with  which  the  fol- 
lowing sentence,  from  Sir  William  Temple,  glides  along,  and  the 
graceful  intervals  at  which  the  pauses  are  placed.  He  is  speaking 
sarcastically  of  man :  '  But,  God  be  thanked,  his  pride  is  greater 
than  his  ignorance,  and  what  he  wants  in  knowledge,  he  supplies 
by  sufficiency.  When  he  has  looked  about  him,  as  far  as  he  can, 
lie  concludes,  there  is  no  more  to  be  seen ;  when  he  is  at  the  end 
of  his  line,  he  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  ocean  ;  when  he  has  shot  his 
best,  he  is  sure  none  ever  did,  or  ever  can,  shoot  better,  or  beyond 
it.  His  own  reason  he  holds  to  be  the  certain  measure  of  truth;  and 
his  own  knowledge,  of  what  is  possible  in  nature.'*     Here  every 

*  Or  this  instance.  He  is  addressing  himself  toLady  Essex,  upon  the  death  of  her 
cnild:  '  I  was  once  in  hope,  that  what  was  so  violent  could  not  be  long:  but,  when  I  ob- 
served your  grief  to  grow  stronger  with  age,  and  to  increase,  like  a  stream,  the  farthei 
it  ran ;  when  I  saw  it  draw  out  to  such  unhappy  consequences,  and  to  threaten,  no  less 
than  your  child,  your  health,  and  your  life,  I  could  no  longer  forbear  this  endeavour 


140  HARMONY  OF  SENTENCES.       [lect.  xiii. 

thing  is,  at  once,  easy  to  the  breath,  and  grateful  to  the  ear; 
and,  it  is  this  sort  of  flowing  measure,  this  regular  and  proportional 
division  of  the  members  of  his  sentences  which  renders  Sir  Wil- 
liam Temple's  style  always  agreeable.  I  must  observe  at  the  same 
time,  that  a  sentence,  with  too  many  rests,  and  these  placed  at  in- 
tervals too  apparently  measured  and  regular,  is  apt  to  savour  of 
affectation. 

The  next  thing  to  be  attended  to,  is,  the  close  or  cadence  of  tbe 
whole  sentence,  which,  as  it  is  always  the  part  most  sensible  to  the 
ear,  demands  the  greatest  care.  So  Quintilian ;  'Non  igitur  du- 
rum sit,  neque  abruptum,  quo  animi,  velut,  respirant  ac  reficiuntur 
Haec  est  sedes  orationis;  hoc  auditor  expectat;  hie  laus  omnis  de- 
clamat.'*  The  only  important  rule  that  can  be  given  here,  is,  that 
when  we  aim  at  dignity  or  elevation,  the  sound  should  be  made  to 
g;row  to  the  last;  the  longest  members  of  the  period,  and  the  fullest 
•md  most  sonorous  words,  should  be  reserved  to  the  conclusion. 
As  an  example  of  this,  the  following  sentence  of  Mr.  Addison's 
may  be  given :  <  It  fills  the  mind  (speaking  of  sight)  with  the 
largest  variety  of  ideas;  converses  with  its  objects  at  the  greatest 
distance;  and  continues  the  longest  in  action,  without  being  tired 
or  satiated  with  its  proper  enjoyments.'  Every  reader  must  be 
sensible  of  a  beauty  here,  both  in  the  proper  division  of  the  mem- 
bers and  pauses,  and  the  manner  in  which  the  sentence  is  rounded, 
and  conducted  to  a  full  and  harmonious  close. 

The  same  holds  in  melody,  that  I  observe  to  take  place  with  re- 
spect to  significancy  :  that  a  falling  off  at  the  end,  always  hurts  great- 
ly. For  this  reason,  particles,  pronouns,  and  little  words,  are  as  un- 
gracious to  the  ear,  at  the  conclusion,  as  I  formerly  showed  they 
were  inconsistent  with  strength  of  expression.  It  is  more  than  pro- 
bable, that  the  sense  and  the  sound  have  here  a  mutual  influence  on 
each  other.  That  which  hurts  the  ear  seems  to  mar  the  strength  of 
the  meaning:  and  that  which  really  degrades  the  sense,  in  conse 
quence  of  this  primary  effect,  appears  also  to  have  a  bad  sound.  How 
disagreeable  is  the  following  sentence  of  an  author,  speaking  of  the 
Trinity!  'It  is  a  mystery  which  we  firmly  believe  the  truth  of, 
and  humbly  adore  the  depth  of.'  And  how  easily  might  it  have 
been  mended  by  this  transposition  !  '  It  is  a  mystery,  the  truth  of 
which  we  firmly  believe,  and  the  depth  of  which  we  humbly  adore.' 
In  general  it  seems  to  hold,  that  a  musical  close,  in  our  language, 
requires  either  the  last  syllable,  or  the  last  but  one,  to  be  a  long 
syllable.  Words  which  consist  only  of  short  syllables,  as,  con- 
trary, particular,  retrospect,  seldom  conclude  a  sentence   har- 

nor  end  it  without  begging  of  you,  for  God's  sake  and  for  your  own,  for  your  children 
and  your  friends,  your  country  and  your  family,  that  you  would  no  longer  abandon 
yourself  to  a  disconsolate  passion  ;  but  that  you  would  at  length  awaken  your  piety 
give  way  to  your  prudence,  or,  at  least,  rouse  the  invincible  spirit  of  the  Percys,  tha' 
never  yet  shrunk  at  any  disaster.' 

*  '  Let  there  be  nothing  harsh  or  abrupt  in  the  cenclusion  of  the  sentence,  on  which 
the  mind  pauses  and  rests.  This  is  the  most  material  part  in  the  structure  of  discourse 
Here  every  beprer  expects  to  be  gratified;  here  his  applause  breaks  forth.' 


lect.  xiii.]       HARMONY  OF  SENTENCES.  14\ 

moniously,  unless  a  run  of  long  syllables,  before,  has  rendered  them 
agreeable  to  the  ear. 

It  is  necessary,  however,  to  observe,  that  sentences  so  constructed 
as  to  make  the  sound  always  swell  and  grow  towards  the  end,  and  to 
rest  either  on  a  long  or  a  penult  long  syllable,  give  a  discourse  the 
tone  of  declamation.  The  ear  soon  becomes  acquainted  with  the 
melody,  and  is  apt  to  be  cloyed  with  it.  If  we  would  keep  up  the 
attention  of  the  reader  or  hearer,  if  we  would  preserve  vivacity  and 
strength  in  our  composition,  we  must  be  very  attentive  to  vary  our 
measures.  This  regards  the  distribution  of  the  members,  as  well 
as  the  cadence  of  the  period.  Sentences  constructed  in  a  similar 
manner,  with  the  pauses  falling  at  equal  intervals,  should  never  follow 
one  another.  Short  sentences  should  be  intermixed  with  long  and 
swelling  ones,  to  render  discourse  sprightly,  as  well  as  magnificent. 
Even  discords,  properly  introduced,  abrupt  sounds,  departures  from 
regular  cadence,  have  sometimes  a  good  effect.  Monotony  is  a 
great  fault  into  which  writers  are  apt  to  fall,  who  are  fond  of  harmo- 
nious arrangement :  and  to  have  only  one  tune,  or  measure,  is  not 
much  better  than  having  none  at  all.  A  very  vulgar  ear  will  enable 
a  writer  to  catch  some  one  melody,  and  to  form  the  run  of  his  sen- 
tences according  to  it ;  which  soon  proves  disgusting.  But  a  just 
and  correct  ear  is  requisite  for  varying  and  diversifying  the  melody; 
and  hence  we  so  seldom  meet  with  authors,  who  are  remarkably  hap- 
py in  this  respect. 

Though  attention  to  the  music  of  sentences  must  not  be  neglect- 
ed, yet  it  must  also  be  kept  within  proper  bounds:  for  all  appear- 
ances of  an  author's  affecting  harmony,  are  disagreeable:  especially 
when  the  love  of  it  betrays  him  so  far,  as  to  sacrifice,  in  any  in- 
stance, perspicuity,  precision,  or  strength  of  sentiment,  to  sound. 
All  unmeaning  words,  introduced  merely  to  round  the  period,  or  fill 
up  the  melody,  comphmenta  numeroriim,  as  Cicero  calls  them,  are 
great  blemishes  in  writing.  They  are  childish  and  puerile  ornaments, 
by  which  a  sentence  always  loses  more  in  point  of  weight,  than  it 
can  gain  by  such  additions  to  the  beauty  of  its  sound.  Sense  has  its 
own  harmony,  as  well  as  sound ;  and,  where  the  sense  of  a  period  is 
expressed  with  clearness,  force,  and  dignity,  it  will  seldom  happen 
but  the  words  will  strike  the  ear  agreeably;  at  least,  a  very 
moderate  attention  is  all  that  is  requisite  for  making  the  cadence  of 
such  a  period  pleasing:  and  the  effect  of  greater  attention  is  often 
no  other,  than  to  render  composition  languid  and  enervated.  After 
all  the  labour  which  Quintilian  bestows  on  regulatingthe  measures  of 
prose,  he  comes  at  last,  with  his  usual  good  sense,  to  this  conclusion : 
'  In  universum,  si  sit  necesse,  duram  potius  atque  asperam  compositio- 
nem  malimesse,  quam  effeminatamac  enervem,  qualis  apud  multos. 
Ideoque,  vincta  quaedam  de  industria  sunt  solvenda,  ne  laborata  vide- 
antur;  neque  ullum  idoneum  aut  aptum  verbum  preetermittamus. 
gratia  lenitatis.'*     (Lib.  ix.  c.  4.) 

*  '  Upou    the    whole,  I  would    rather    choose     that  composition    should    appear 
rou;?h  and  harsh,  if  that  be  necessary,   than  that  it  should  he    enervated  and  effem- 


142  HARMONY  OF  SENTENCES.       [lkct.  xiii. 

Cicero,  as  I  before  observed,  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  pat- 
terns of  a  harmonious  style.  His  love  of  it,  however,  is  too  visible, 
and  the  pomp  of  his  numbers  sometimes  detracts  from  his  strength. 
That  noted  close  of  his,  esse  video tur,  which,  in  the  Oration  Pro 
Lege  Manilla,  occurs  eleven  times,  exposed  him  to  censure  among 
his  contemporaries.  We  must  observe,  however,  in  defence  of  this 
great  orator,  that  there  is  a  remarkable  union,in  his  style,  of  harmo- 
ny with  ease,  which  is  always  a  great  beauty ;  and  if  his  harmony  be 
studied,  that  study  appears  to  have  cost  him  little  trouble. 

Among  our  English  classics,  not  many  are  distinguished  for  musi- 
cal arrangment.  Milton,  in  some  of  his  prose  works,  has  very  fine- 
ly turned  periods ;  but  the  writers  of  his  age  indulged  a  liberty  of 
inversion,  which  now  would  be  reckoned  contrary  to  purity  of 
style;  and  though  this  allowed  their  sentences  to  be  more  stately 
and  sonorous,  yet  it  gave  them  too  much  of  a  Latinised  construction 
and  order.  Of  later  writers,  Shaftesbury  is,  upon  the  whole,  the 
most  correct  in  his  numbers.  As  his  ear  was  delicate,  he  has  at- 
tended to  music  in  all  his  sentences;  and  he  is  peculiarly  happy  in 
this  respect,  that  he  has  avoided  the  monotony  into  which  writers, 
who  study  the  grace  of  sound,  are  very  apt  to  fall ;  having  diversi- 
fied his  periods  with  great  variety.  Mr.  Addison  has  also  much 
harmony  in  his  style ;  more  easy  and  smooth,  hut  less  varied,  than 
Lord  Shaftesbury.  Sir  William  Temple  is,  in  general,  very  flouring 
and  agreeable.  Archbishop  Tillotson,  is  too  often  careless  and 
languid  ;  and  is  much  outdone  by  Bithop  Atterbury  in  the  music 
of  his  periods.  Dean  Swift  despised  musical  arrangement  alto- 
gether. 

Hitherto  I  have  discoursed  of  agreeable  sound,  or  modulation,  m 
general.  It  yet  remains  to  treat  of  a  higher  beauty  of  this  kind  ; 
the  sound  adapted  to  the  sense.  The  former  was  no  more  than  a 
simple  accompaniment,  to  please  the  ear;  the  latter  supposes  a  pe- 
culiar expression  given  to  the  music.  We  may  remark  two  degrees 
of  it:  First,  the  current  of  sound,  adapted  to  the  tenour  of  a  dis- 
course; next,  a  particular  resemblance  effected  between  some  ob- 
ject and  the  sounds  that  are  employed  in  describing  it. 

First,  I  say,  the  current  of  sound  maybe  adapted  to  the  tenour  of 
a  discourse.  Sounds  have,  in  many  respects,  a  correspondence  with 
our  ideas ;  partly  natural,  partly  the  effect  of  artificial  associations. 
Hence  it  happens,  that  any  one  modulation  of  sound  continued,  im- 
prints on  our  style  a  certain  character  and  expression.  Sentences  con- 
structed with  the  Ciceronian  fulness  and  swell,  produce  the  impression 
of  what  is  important,  magnificent,  sedate :  for  this  is  the  natural  tone 
which  such  a  course  of  sentiment  assumes.  But  they  suit  no  vio- 
lent passion,  no  eager  reasoning,  no  familiar  address.  These  always 
require  measures  brisker,  easier,  and   often  more  abrupt.     And, 

hiate.  such  as  we  find  the  style  of  too  many.  Some  sentences,  therefore,  which  we 
have  studiously  formed  into  melody,  should  be  thrown  loose,  that  they  may  not  seem 
too  much  laboured  :  nor  ought  we  ever  to  omit  any  proper  or  expressive  word,  for  the 
sake  of  smoothing  a  period.' 


lect.  xiii.]       HARMONY  OF  SENTENCES.  143 

tnerefore',  to  swell,  or  to  let  down  the  periods,  as  the  subject  de- 
mands, is  a  very  important  rule  in  oratory.  No  one  tenour,  what- 
ever, supposing  it  to  produce  no  bad  effect  from  satiety,  will  answer 
to  all  different  compositions;  nor  even  to  all  the  parts  of  the  same 
composition.  It  were  as  absurd  to  write  a  panegyric,  and  an  invec- 
tive, in  a  style  of  the  same  cadence,  as  to  set  the  words  of  a  tender 
love-song  to  the  air  of  a  warlike  march. 

Observe,  how  finely  the  following  sentence  of  Cicero,  is  adapted 
to  represent  the  tranquillity  and  ease  of  a  satisfied  state.  '  Etsi  ho- 
mini  nihil  est  magis  optandum  quam  prospera,  aequabilis,  perpetua- 
que  forUna,  secundo  vitse  sine  ulla  offensione  cursu ;  tamen,  si  mihi 
tranquilla  etplacata  omnia  fuissentincredibili  quadam  et  pene  divi- 
na,  qua  nunc  vestro  beneficio  fruor,  laetitiae  voluptate  caruissem.'* 
Nothing  was  ever  more  perfect  in  its  kind  :  it  paints,  if  we  may  so 
speak,  to  the  ear.  But,  who  would  not  have  laughed,  if  Cicero  had 
employed  such  periods,  or  such  a  cadence  as  this,  in  inveighing 
against  Mark  Antony,  or  Catiline?  What  is  requisite,  therefore,  is, 
that  we  previously  fix,  in  our  mind,  a  just  idea  of  the  general  tone 
of  sound  which  suits  our  subject;  that  is,  which  the  sentiments  we 
are  to  express  most  naturally  assume,  and  in  which  they  most  com 
monly  vent  themselves;  whether  round  or  smooth,  or  stately  and 
solemn,  or  brisk  and  quick,  or  interrupted  and  abrupt.  This  gene 
ral  idea  must  direct  the  modulation  of  our  periods;  to  speak  in  the 
style  of  music,  must  give  us  the  key  note,  must  form  the  ground  of 
the  melody;  varied  and  diversified  in  parts,  according  as  either  our 
sentiments  are  diversified,  or  as  is  requisite  for  producing  a  suitable 
variety  to  gratify  the  ear. 

It  may  be  proper  to  remark,  that  our  translators  of  the  Bible  have 
often  been  happy  in  suiting  their  numbers  to  the  subject.  Grave, 
solemn,  and  majestic  subjects,  undoubtedly  require  such  an  arrange- 
ment of  words  as  runs  much  onlong  syllables ;  and,  particularly, they 
require  the  close  to  rest  upon  such.  The  very  first  verses  of  the 
Bible,  are  remarkable  for  this  melody;  'In  the  beginning,  God  cre- 
ated the  heavens  and  the  earth ;  and  the  earth  was  without  form 
and  void;  and  darkness  was  upon  the  face  of  the  deep;  and  the 
Spirit  of  God  moved  upon  the  face  of  the  waters.'  Several  other 
oassages,  particularly  some  of  the  Psalms,  afford  striking  examples 
of  this  sort  of  grave,  melodious  construction.  Any  composition 
that  arises  considerably  above  the  ordinary  tone  of  prose,  such  as 
monumental  inscriptions,  and  panegyrical  characters,  naturally  runs 
into  numbers  of  this  kind. 

But  in  the  next  place,  besides  the  general  correspondence  of  the 
current  of  sound  with  the  current  of  thought,  there  may  be  a  more 
particular  expression  attempted,  of  certain  objects,  by  means  of  re- 
sembling sounds.  This  can  be,  sometimes,  accomplished  in  prose 
composition;  but  there  only  in  a  more  faint  degree;  nor  is  it  so 
much  expected  there.  In  poetry,  chiefly,  it  is  looked  for;  wlierc 
attention  to  sound  is  more  demanded,  and  where  the  inversions  and 

*  Orat.  ad  Quirites,  post  Pe-iitum. 


144  HARMONY  OF  SENTENCES.        [lect.  xiii 

liberties  of  poetical  style  give  us  a  greater  command  of  sound  :  as- 
sisted, too,  by  the  versification,  and  that  cantus  obscurior,  to  which 
we  are  naturally  led  in  reading  poetry.  This  requires  a  little  more 
illustration. 

The  sounds  of  words  may  be  employed  for  representing,  chiefly, 
three  classes  of  objects;  first,  other  sounds;  secondly,  motion ;  and 
thirdly,  the  emotions  and  passions  of  the  mind. 

First,  I  say,  by  a  proper  choice  of  words,  we  may  produce  a  re- 
semblance of  other  sounds  which  "We  mean  to  describe,  such  as,  the 
noise  of  waters,  the  roaring  of  winds,  or  the  murmuring  of  streams. 
This  is  the  simplest  instance  of  this  sort  of  beauty.  For  the  medium 
through  which  we  imitate  here,  is  a  natural  one ;  sounds  represent- 
ed by  other  sounds ;  and  between  ideas  of  the  same  sense,  it  is  easy 
to  form  a  connexion.  No  very  great  art  is  required  in  a  poet  when 
he  is  describing  sweet  and  soft  sounds,  to  make  use  of  such  words  as 
have  most  liquids  and  vowels,  and  glide  the  softest;  or,  when  he  is 
describing  harsh  sounds,  to  throw  together  a  number  of  harsh  sylla- 
bles which  are  of  difficult  pronunciation.  Here  the  common  struc- 
ture of  language  assists  him ;  for  it  will  be  found,  that  in  most  lan- 
guages, the  names  of  many  particular  sounds  are  so  formed,  as  to 
carry  some  affinity  to  the  sound  which  they  signify;  as  with  us,  the 
whistling  of  winds,  the  buz  and  hu??i  of  insects,  the  hiss  of  serpents, 
the  crash  of  falling  timber;  and  many  other  instances,  where  the 
word  has  been  plainly  framed  upon  the  sound  it  represents.  I  shall 
produce  a  remarkable  example  of  this  beauty  from  Milton,  taken 
from  two  passages  in  Paradise  Lost,  describing  the  sound  made,  in 
the  one,  by  the  opening  of  the  gates  of  hell ;  in  the  other,  by  the 
opening  of  those  of  heaven.  The  contrast  between  the  two,  dis- 
plays, to  great  advantage,  the  poet's  art.  The  first  is  the  opening 
of  helPs  gates  : 

-On  a  sudden,  open  fly, 


With  impetuous  recoil,  and  jarring  sound, 

TV  infernal  doors ;  and  on  their  hinges  grate 

Harsh  thunder. B.  L 

Observe,  now,  the  smoothness  of  the  other* 


-Heaven  opened  wide 


Her  ever-during  gates,  harmonious  sound, 

On  golden  hinges  turning. B.  ii. 

The  following  beautiful  passage  from  Tasso's  Gierusalemme,  has 
been  often  admired  on  account  of  the  imitation  effected  by  sound 
of  the  thing  represented : 

Chiama  gli  habitator  de  l'ombre  eterne 

II  rauco  suon  de  la  Tartareo  tromba: 

Treman  le  spaciose  atra  caverne, 

Et  l'aer  cieco  a  quel  rumor  rimbomba; 

Ni  stridendo  cosi  de  la  superne 

Regioni  dele  cielo,  il  folgor  piomba; 

Ne  si  scossa  giammai  la  terra, 

Quand  i  vapori  in  sen  gravida  serra.  Cant.  iv.  Stanz.  4. 

The  second  class  of  objects,  which  the  sound  of  words  is  often 
employed  to  imitate,  is  motion  ;  as  it  is  swift  or  slow,  violent  or 


lect.  xin.l        HARMONY  OF  SENTENCES.  145 

gentle,  equable  or  interrupted,  easy  or  accompanied  with  effort 
Though  there  be  no  natural  affinity  between  sound,  of  any  kind, 
and  motion,  yet,  in  the  imagination,  there  is  a  strong  one ;  as  ap- 
pears from  the  connexion  between  music  and  dancing.  And  there- 
fore, here  it  is  in  the  poet's  power  to  give  us  a  lively  idea  of  the 
kind  of  motion  he  would  describe,  by  means  of  sounds  which  cor- 
respond, in  our  imagination,  with  that  motion.  Long  syllables  natu- 
rally give  the  impression  of  slow  motion;  as  in  this  line  of  Virgil : 

Olli  inter  sese  magna  vi  brachia  tollunt. 

A  succession  of  short  syllables  presents  quick  motion  to  the  mind ;  as 

Quadrupedante  putrem  sonitu  quatit  ungula  campum. 

Both  Homer  and  Virgil  are  great  masters  of  this  beauty ;  and  their 
works  abound  with  instances  of  it;  most  of  them,  indeed,  so  often 
quoted,  and  so  well  known,  that  it  is  needless  to  produce  them.  I  shall 
give  one  instance,  in  English,  which  seems  happy.  It  is  the  descrip- 
tion of  a  sudden  calm  on  the  seas,  in  a  poem,  entitled,  The  Fleece. 

-With  easy  course 


The  vessels  glide ;  unless  their  speed  be  stopp'd 
By  dead  calms,  that  oft  lie  on  these  smooth  seas 
When  every  zephyr  sleeps ;  then  the  shrouds  drop  , 
The  downy  feather,  on  the  cordage  hung, 
Moves  not;  the  flat  sea  shines  like  yellow' gold 
Fus'd  in  the  fire,  or  like  the  marble  floor 
Of  some  old  temple  w;,le. 

The  third  set  of  objects  which  I  mentioned  the  sound  of  words 
as  capable  of  representing,  consists  of  the  passions  and  emotions  of 
the  mind.  Sound  may,  at  first  view,  appear  foreign  to  these ;  but, 
that  here  also,  there  is  some  sort  of  connexion,  is  sufficiently  pro- 
ved by  the  power  which  music  has  to  awaken,  or  to  assist  certain 
passions,  and,  according  as  its  strain  is  varied,  to  introduce  one  train 
of  ideas,  rather  than  another.  This,  indeed,  logically  speaking, 
cannot  be  called  a  resemblance  between  the  sense  and  the  sound, 
seeing  long  or  short  syllables  have  no  natural  resemblance  to  any 
thought  or  passion.  But  if  the  arrangement  of  syllables,  by  their 
sound  alone,  recall  one  set  of  ideas  more  readily  than  another,  and 
dispose  the  mind  for  entering  into  that  affection  which  the  poet 
means  to  raise,  such  arrangement  may,  justly  enough,  be  said  to 
resemble  the  sense,  or  be  similar  and  correspondent  to  it.  I  admit, 
that,  in  many  instances,  which  are  supposed  to  display  this  beauty 
of  accommodation  of  sound  to  the  sense,  there  is  much  room  for 
imagination  to  work ;  and,  according  as  a  reader  is  struck  by  a  pas- 
sage, he  will  often  fancy  a  resemblance  between  the  sound  and  the 
sense,  which  others  cannot  discover.  He  modulates  the  numbers  to 
nis  own  disposition  of  mind;  and,  in  effect,  makes  the  music  which 
he  imagines  himself  to  hear.  However,  that  there  are  real  instan- 
ces of  this  kind,  and  that  poetry  is  capable  of  some  such  expression, 
cannot  be  doubted.  Dryden's  Ode  on  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  affords  a 
very  beautiful  exemplification  of  it,  in  the  English  language.  With- 
out much  study  or  reflection,  a  poet  describing  pleasure,  joy,  and 

19 


146 


QUESTIONS. 


LECT.  XIII 


agreeable  objects,  from  the  feeling  of  his  subject,  naturally  runs  into 
.smooth,  liquid,  and  flowing  numbers  : 


Or, 


Naraque  ipsa  decoram 

Caesariem  nato  genetrix,  lumenque  juventae 
Purpureum,  et  ketos  oculis  atBarat  honores. 


Mv.  L 


Devenere  locos  lactos  et  amaena  vireta 

Portunatorum,  memorum,  sedesque  bcatas  ; 

Largior  hie  campos  aether,  et  lumine  vestit 

Purpureo,  solemque  suutn,  sua  sidera  norant.  J£i».  VI. 

Brisk  and  lively  sensations,  exact  quicker  and  more  animated  num- 
bers :  , 

Juvenum  manus  emicat  ardens 

Littus  in  Hesperium.  iEi».  VII. 

Melancholy  and  gloomy  subjects,  naturally  express  themselves  in 
slow  measures,  and  long  words  : 

In  those  deep  solitudes  and  awful  cells, 
Where  heavenly  pensive  contemplation  dwells. 
Et  caliganteni  nigra  formidine  lucum. 

I  have  now  given  sufficient  openings  into  this  subject :  a  moderate 
acquaintance  with  the  good  poets,  either  ancient  or  modern,  will 
suggest  many  instances  of  the  same  kind.  And  with  this  I  finish  the 
discussion  of  the  structure  of  sentences  :  having  fully  considered 
them  under  all  the  heads  I  mentioned ;  of  perspicuity,  unity,  strength, 
and  musical  arrangement. 


Q,UESTIO]VS# 


How  have  we  hitherto  considered 
sentences;  and  how  are  we  now  to 
consider  them  ?  Of  sound,  what  is  o!> 
served  ;  and  why  must  it  not  be  disre- 
garded ?  What  remark  follows  ?  What 
is  their  effect  on  the  imagination? 
What  says  Quintilian  ?  How  extensive 
is  the  power  of  music  over  mankind  ? 
Of  what,  therefore,  may  language  be 
rendered  capable  ;  and  of  what  must 
this  heighten  our  ideas  ?  What  remark 
rollows?  In  the  harmony  of  periods, 
what  two  things  may  be  considered  ? 
Of  them,  respectively,  what  is  obser- 
ved ?  First,  then,  what  shall  we  consi- 
der ;  and  to  what  shall  we  confine  our- 
selves ?  This  beauty  of  musical  con- 
struction in  prose,  will  depend  upon  what 
two  things  ?  With  what  does  our  au- 
thor begin  ;  and  on  this  head,  what  is 
observed  ?  What  words,  is  it  evident, 
are  most  agreeable  to  the  ear  ?  What 
may  always  be  assumed  as  a  principle? 
What  do  vowels  and  consonants,  re- 
spectively, trive  to  the  sound  of  a  word  ? 
What  does  the  music  of  language  re- 
quire ;  and  what  will  be  the  effect  of 
an  excess  in  either  ?  Which  are  most 
ayreeablp  to  the  ear?  By  what  do 
they  please  it;    and    what   follows? 


Among  words  of  any  length,  which 
are  the  most  musical;  and  what  ex- 
amples are  given  ?  Of  the  next  head, 
what  is  observed ;  and  why  ?  In  the 
harmonious  structure  and  dfepoi 
of  periods,  who  excelled  all  other  wri- 
ters ?  What  is  said  of  him ;  and  what 
example  is  given  ?  In  English,  from 
whom  is  a  sentence  selected ;  and  what 
is  it  ?  What  is  said  of  it  ?  The  struc- 
ture of  periods  being  susceptible  of 
very  considerable  melody,  what  is  our 
next  inquiry  ?  Were  we  to  follow  the 
ancient  rhetoricians  upon  this  subject, 
why  would  it  be  easy  to  give  a  great 
variety  of  rules  ?  What  do  they  hold  ; 
and  how  far  do  they  go?  What,  con- 
sequently, follows?  Who  are  full  of 
this?  What  qualities  do  they  handle 
slightly ;  and  where  are  they  copious  ? 
Of  Dionycius  of  Halicarnassus,  what  ia 
observed  ;  and  what  has  he  done  ?  Ii. 
what  four  things  does  he  make  the  ex- 
cellence of  a  sentence  to  consist  ?  On 
ail  these  points,  how  does  he  write  j 
and  what  follows?  Of  this  whole  sub- 
ject of  musical  structure  of  discourse, 
what  is  observed  ?  Why  will  it  be  ne, 
cessary  to  give  the  reasons  ibr  this'* 
What  is  the  first  reason  assigned  ;  an 


LECT.  XIII. J 


QUESTIONS. 


146  a 


why  ?  What  is  the  next  reason  assign- 
ed? Of  music,  among  them,  what  is 
observed  ?  What  have  several  learned 
men  clearly  proved ;  and  what  fol- 
lows ?  How  was  all  sort  of  declama- 
tion and  public  speaking  carried  on  by 
them  ;  and  to  what  did  it  approach  1 
Anting  the  Athenians,  what  existed  ? 
Anions:  the  Romans,  what  noted  stoiy 
pre/ails?  What  remark  follows'?  Of 
Quintilian,  what  is  here  observed? 
Hence,  what  do  we  find  marked  upon 
the  Greek  syllables  ;  and  for  what  pur- 
pose ?  Of  the  Romans,  what  is  here 
observed?  What  is  one  clear  reason 
why  the  Greeks  and  Romans  paid 
much  greater  attention  to  the  musical 
construction  of  their  sentences  than  we 
do?  What  is  further  known,  as  an- 
other reason  why  it  deserved  to  be  more 
studied  ?  What  does  Cicero  tell  us ; 
and  what  does  he  give  ?  By  means  of 
the  sound  of  which,  alone,  what  effect 
does  he  tell  us  was  produced  ?  Though 
it  be  true  that  Carbo's  sentence  is  ex- 
tremely musical,  yet,  what  cannot  our 
author  believe ;  why ;  and  what  fol- 
lows ?  For  these  reasons,  of  what  is  it 
in  vain  to  think  ?  What  has  tho  doc- 
trine of  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  on 
this  head,  misled  some  to  imagine  ?  On 
this  subject,  what  is  first  remarked ;  and 
why  ?  What  is  the  next  remark  ?  And 
lastly,  of  this  whole  doctrine,  what  is 
remarked  ?  Of  the  attention  of  the  an- 
cients to  the  melody  of  discourse,  what 
is  further  observed  ?  If  we  consult  Ci- 
cero's Orator,  what  shall  we  see  ? 
Why  is  it  not  possible  to  give  precise 
rules  concerning  this  matter,  in  any 
language  ?  Notwithstanding  this  musi- 
cal arrangement  cannot  be  reduced 
into  any  system,  yet  what  is  our  au- 
thor far  from  thinking  ?  On  the  con- 
trary, what  does  he  hold;  and  what 
follows?  What,  in  this,  must  chiefly 
direct  him ;  and  why  ?  On  what  two 
tilings  does  the  music  of  a  sentence 
chiefly  depend?  In  the  proper  distri- 
bution of  the  several  members  of  a  sen- 
tence, what  is  it  of  importance  to  observe? 
WTiile  the  period  is  going  on,  what 
does  the  termination  of  each  of  its  mem- 
bers form  ;  and  how  should  these  rests 
be  distributed  ?  By  what  example  will 
this  be  best  illustrated  ?  Why  is  there 
not,  in  this  sentence',  any  harmony? 
On  the  other  hand,  what  shall  we  ob- 
serve ?  Of  what  is  he  speaking  ?  Re- 
peat  the   passage.     Of  this   passage, 


what  is  observed;  and  to  this  sort  of 
flowing  measure,  what  must  be  attri- 
buted ?  What  must,  however,  at  the 
same  time  be  observed  ? 

What  is  the  next  thing  to  be  attend- 
ed to  ?  What  says  Quintilian  on  this 
subject  ?  When  we  aim  at  dignity, 
what  is  the  only  important  rule  that 
can  be  given  ?  What  example  of  this 
is  given  ?  Hence,  of  what  must  every 
reader  be  sensible  ?  W'hy  does  a  fall- 
ing off  at  the  end  injure  the  melody  of 
a  sentence  ?  What  is  here  more  than 
probable;  and  for  what  reason?  Tc 
illustrate  this  remark,  what  example 
is  given ;  and  how  might  it  be  correct- 
ed? In  general,  what  seems  to  hold 
true  ?  Under  what  circumstances  only, 
do  short  syllables  conclude  a  sentence 
harmoniously?  What  sentences  is  it 
necessary,  however,  to  observe,  give  a 
discourse  the  tone  of  declamation ;  and 
why  ?  If  we  would  keep  up  the  atten 
tion  of  the  reader  or  hearer,  what  is 
requisite  ?  What  does  this  equally  re- 
gard ?  What  sentences  should  never 
follow  one  another  ?  Why  should  short 
sentences  be  intermixed  with  long  ones; 
and  even  what  have  sometimes  a  good 
effect  ?  Of  monotony,  what  is  observed  ; 
what  writers  are  apt  to  fall  into  it ; 
and  what  follows  ?  How  are  a  very 
vulgar  ear,  and  a  just  and  correct  one. 
here  contrasted  ?  Though  attention  to 
the  music  of  sentences  must  not  be 
neglected,  yet  why  must  it  be  kept 
in  proper  bounds?  What  are  great 
blemishes  in  writing;  and  why?A& 
sense  has  its  own  harmony,  as  well  a.-* 
sound,  what  follows?  To  what  conclu- 
sion does  Quintilian,  after  all  the  labour 
which  he  bestows  to  regulate  the 
measure  of  prose,  come  ?  What  is  here 
said  of  Cicero ;  and  what  must  we  ob- 
serve hi  his  defence  ?  Amono;  the  few 
English  classical  writers,  what  is  re- 
marked of  Milton,  and  of  the  writers  of 
the  age  in  which  he  lived  ?  Of  Lord 
Shaftesbury,  wha.t  is  observed  ;  and 
also  of  Mr.  Addison,  Sir  William  Tem- 
ple, Archbishop  Tillotson,  Bishop  At- 
terbury,  and  Dean  Swift?  Hitherto,  ol 
what  has  our  author  discoursed ;  and 
what  yet  remains  ?  How  are  these  con- 
trasted ?  What  are  the  two  decrees  oi 
;t,  which  we  may  remark  ?  With  what 
have  sounds  a  correspondence ;  and 
hence,  what  happens?  What  is  the 
effect  of  sentences  constructed  alter  the 
Ciceronian  fulness.-  ind  why?    Wha 


146  6 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  XIII. 


•do  thev  not  suit ;  and  what  do  these 
-equire  ?  What,  therefore,  follows? 
How  is  this  illustrated ;  and  what  were 
absurd  ?  Of  the  sentence  here  intro- 
duced from  Cicero,  what  is  remarked  ? 
To  have  used  the  same  periods  where, 
would  have  been  laughable ;  and 
hence,  what  is  requisite?  What  must 
this  general  idea  direct  ?  What  may  it 
be  proper  here  to  remark?  What  do 
grave,  solemn,  and  majestic  subjects, 
require  ?  Where  are  examples  ol  this 
to  be  found ;  and  what,  naturally  runs 
into  numbers  of  this  kind?  But,  in  the 
next  place,  what  is  remarked  ?  Where 
can  this,  sometimes,  be  accomplish- 
ed ;  but  where  is  it  to  be  chiefly  looked 
for ;  and  why  ?  What  three  classes  of 
objects  may  sounds  of  words  be  em- 
ployed to  represent  ?  First,  by  a  proper 
choice  of  words,  what  may  be  pro- 
duced ;  and  why  ?  How  is  this  illus- 
trated ?  Here,  what  assists  him ;  and 
why?  What  examples  are  given? 
What  remarkable  example  of  this 
beauty  is  produced  from  Milton  ?  Re- 
peat the  passages.  What  other  beauti- 
ful passage  is  given  for  the  same  pur- 
pose? In  the  second  place,  what  diffe- 
rent kinds  of  motion  are  imitated  by 
sounds  of  words?  What  observation 
follows ;  and,  therefore,  here,  what  is 
in  the  poet's  power  ?  What  impression 
do  long  syllables  give  ;  of  which,  what 
example  have  we  ?  What  is  the  effect 
of  short  syllables  ;  and  what  example 


is  given?  Of  Homer  and  Virgil,  what  is 
here  observed  ?  What  happy  instance 
is  given  in  English  ?  In  what  does  the 
third  set  of  objects,  which  the  sounds  01 
words  are  capable  of  representing,  con- 
sist? What  remark  follows?  What, 
cannot  this  be  called ;  and  why  ?  But 
what  follows  ?  What  is  here  admitted  ? 
What  follows ;  and  what  examples  are 
given?  Without  much  study,  what 
may  a  poet  do?  Of  brisk  and  lively, 
and  also  of  melancholy  sensations, 
what  is  observed  ?  What  is  the  closing 
remark  ? 


ANALYSIS. 

Harmony. 

1.  Sounds  without  reference  to  sense. 
a.  The  choice  of  words. 
B.  The  arrangement  of  words  and 
members  of  periods. 

a.  The  advantages  of  the  Greeks 
and  Romans. 

b.  The  proper  distribution  of  the 
members  of  a  sentence. 

c.  The  close  or  cadence  of  the 
whole. 

2.  Sounds  adapted  to  the  sense. 
a.  Adapted  to  the  tenour  of  a  dis- 
course. 
B.  Resemblance  between  the  sound 
and  the  object  described. 

a.  Other  sounds. 

b.  Motion. 

c.  Emotions  and  passions. 


LECTURE  XIV. 

ORIGIN  AND  NATURE  OF  FIGURATIVE  LANGUAGE. 
Having  now  finished  what  related  to  the  construction  of  sen- 
tences, I  proceed  to  other  rules  concerning  style.  My  general  di- 
vision of  the  qualities  of  style,  was  into  perspicuity  and  ornament. 
Perspicuity,  both  in  single  words  and  in  sentences,  1  have  considered. 
Ornament,  as  far  as  it  arises  from  a  graceiu.,  strong,  and  melodious 
construction  of  words,  has  also  been  treated  of.  Another,  and  a 
great  branch  of  the  ornament  of  style,  is,  figurative  language  ;  which 
is  now  to  be  the  subject  of  our  consideration,  and  will  require  a  full 
discussion. 

Our  first  inquiry  must  be,  what  is  meant  by  figures  of  speech  1* 
In  general,  they  always  imply  some  departure  from  simplicity  of 

*  On  the  subject  of  figures  of  speech,  all  the  writers  who  treat  of  rhetoric  or  eomposi- 
ion,  have  insisted  largely.  To  make  references,  therefore,  rn  this  subject,  were  endless. 
On  the  foundations  of  figurative  language,  in  genera.,  one  of  the  most  sensible  and  in- 
structive writers  appears  to  me  to  be  M.  Marsais,  in  his  Traite  des  Tropes  pour  servir 
a- Introduction  a  la  Rhetorique  etala  Loeique.  For  observations  on  particular  figures, 
he  Elements  of  Criticism  may  be  consulted,  whe're  the  subject  is  fully  handled,  ana  il 
nstrated  by  a  great  variety  of  examples. 


lect.  xiv.J         FIGURATIVE  LANGUAGE.  147 

expression  ;  the  idea  which  we  intend  to  convey,  not  only  enunciat- 
ed to  others,  but  enunciated,  in  a  particular  manner,  and  with  some 
circumstance  added,  which  is  designed  to  render  the  impression 
more  strong  and  vivid.  When  I  say,  for  instance,  '  That  a  good 
man  enjoys  comfort  in  the  midst  of  adversity;'  I  just  express  my 
thought  in  the  simplest  manner  possible.  But  when  I  say,  '  To  the 
upright  there  ariseth  light  in  darkness;'  the  same  sentiment  is  ex- 
pressed in  a  figurative  style;  a  new  circumstance  is  introduced ; 
light  is  put  in  the  place  of  comfort,  and  darkness  is  used  to  suggest 
the  idea  of  adversity.  In  the  same  manner,  to  say,  '  It  is  impossi- 
(  ble,  by  any  search  we  can  make,  to  explore  the  divine  nature  fully,' 
is  to  make  a  simple  proposition.  But  when  we  say, '  Canst  thou,  by 
searching,  find  out  God?  Canst  thou  find  out  the  Almighty  to  perfec- 
tion ?  It  is  high  as  heaven,  what  canst  thou  do  ?  deeper  than  hell, 
what  canst  thou  know?'  This  introduces  a  figure  into  style;  the 
proposition  being  not  only  expressed,  but  admiration  and  astonish- 
ment being  expressed  together  with  it. 

But,  though  figures  imply  a  deviation  from  what  may  be  reckoned 
the  most  simple  form  of  speech,  we  are  not  thence  to  conclude, 
that  they  imply  any  thing  uncommon,  or  unnatural.  This  is  so 
far  from  being  the  case,  that,  on  very  many  occasions,  they  are 
both  the  most  natural,  and  the  most  common  method  of  uttering 
our  sentiments.  It  is  impossible  to  compose  any  discourse  without 
using  them  often;  nay,  there  are  few  sentences  of  any  length,  in 
which  some  expression  or  other,  that  may  be  termed  a  figure,  doe^ 
not  occur.  From  what  causes  this  happens,  shall  be  afterwards  ex 
plained.  The  fact,  in  the  mean  time,  shows,  that  they  are  to  be 
accounted  part  of  that  language  which  nature  dictates  to  men. 
They  are  not  the  inventions  of  the  schools,  nor  the  mere  product  ol 
study:  on  the  contrary,  the  most  illiterate  speak  in  figures,  as  of- 
ten as  the  most  learned.  Whenever  the  imaginations  of  the  vulgar 
are  much  awakened,  or  their  passions  inflamed  against  one  another, 
they  will  pour  fourth  a  torrent  of  figurative  language  as  forcible  as 
could  be  employed  by  the  most  artificial  declaimer. 

What  then  is  it,  which  has  drawn  the  attention  of  critics  and 
rhetoricians  so  much  to  these  forms  of  speech  ?  It  is  this :  They 
remarked,  that  in  them  consists  much  of  the  beauty  and  the  force 
of  language;  and  found  them  always  to  bear  some  characters,  or 
distinguishing  marks,  by  the  help  of  which  they  could  reduce  them 
under  separate  classes  and  heads.  To  this,  perhaps,  they  owe  their 
name  of  figures.  As  the  figure,  or  shape  of  one  body,  distinguishes 
it  from  another,  so  these  forms  of  speech  have,  each  of  them,  a 
cast  or  turn  peculiar  to  itself,  which  both  distinguishes  it  from 
the  rest,  and  distinguishes  it  from  simple  expression.  Simple  expres- 
sion just  makes  our  idea  known  to  others;  but  figurative  language, 
over  and  above,  bestows  a  particular  dress  upon  that  idea ;  a  dress, 
which  both  makes  it  to  be  remarked,  and  adorns  it.  Hence,  this  sort 
of  language  became  early  a  capital  object  of  attention  to  those  who 
studied  the  powers  of  speech. 

Figures,  in  general,  may  be  dercribed  to  be  that  language,  which 


148  ORIGIN  AND  NATURE  OF  Llect.  xiv 

.s  prompted  either  by  the  imagination,  or  by  the  passions.  The 
justness  of  this  description  will  appear,  from  the  more  particular  ac- 
count I  am  afterwards  to  give  of  them.  Rhetoricians  commonly 
divide  them  into  two  great  classes;  figures  of  words,  and  figures 
of  thought.  The  former,  figures  of  words,  are  commonly  called 
tropes,  and  consist  in  a  word's  being  employed  to  signify  something 
that  is  different  from  its  original  and  primitive  meaning;  so  that  if 
you  alter  the  word,  you  destroy  the  figure.  Thus,  in  the  instance 
I  gave  before;  'Light  ariseth  to  the  upright  in  darkness.'  The 
trope  consists  in  '  light  and  darkness'  being  not  meant  literally,  but 
substituted  for  comfort  and  adversity,  on  account  of  some  resem- 
blance or  analogy  which  they  are  supposed  to  bear  to  these  con- 
ditions of  life.  The  other  class,  termed  figures  of  thought,  suppo- 
ses the  words  to  be  used  in  their  proper  and  literal  meaning,  and 
the  figure  to  consist  in  the  turn  of  the  thought;  as  is  the  case  in  ex- 
clamations, interrogations,  apostrophes,  and  comparisons;  where, 
though  you  vary  the  words  that  are  used,  or  translate  them  from  one 
language  into  another,  you  may,  nevertheless,  still  preserve  the  same 
figure  in  the  thought.  This  distinction,  however,  is  of  no  great 
use,  as  nothing  can  be  built  upon  it  in  practice  ;  neither  is  it  always 
very  clear.  It  is  of  little  importance,  whether  we  give  to  some  par- 
ticular mode  of  expression  the  name  of  a  trope,  or  of  a  figure; 
provided  we  remember,  that  figurative  language  always  imports  some 
colouring  of  the  imagination,  or  from  some  emotion  of  passion,  ex- 
pressed in  our  style:  and,  perhaps,  figures  of  imagination,  and  figures 
of  passion,  might  be  a  more  useful  distribution  of  the  subject. 
But  without  insisting  on  any  artificial  divisions,  it  will  be  more 
useful,  that  I  inquire  into  the  origin  and  the  nature  of  figures.  On- 
ly, before  I  proceed  to  this,  there  are  two  general  observations 
which  it  may  be  proper  to  premise. 

The  first  is,  concerning  the  use  of  rules  with  respect  to  figurative 
language.  I  admit,  that  persons  may  both  speak  and  write  with 
propriety,  who  know  not  the  names  of  any  of  the  figures  of  speech, 
nor  ever  studied  any  rules  relating  to  them.  Nature,  as  was  before 
observed,  dictates  the  use  of  figures;  and,  like  Mons.  Jourdain,  in 
Moliere,  who  had  spoken  for  forty  years  in  prose,  Without  ever 
knowing  it,  many  a  one  uses  metaphorical  expressions  to  good  pur- 
pose, without  any  idea  of  what  a  metaphor  is.  It  will  not,  how- 
ever, follow  thence,  that  rules  are  of  no  service.  All  science  arises 
from  observations  on  practice.  Practice  has  always  gone  before  me- 
thod and  rule ;  but  method  and  rule  have  afterwards  improved  and 
perfected  practice  in  every  art.  We  every  day  meet  with  persons 
who  sing  agreeably  without  knowing  one  note  of  the  gamut.  Yet,  it 
has  been  found  of  importance  to  reduce  these  notes  to  a  scale,  and 
to  form  an  art  of  music  ;  and  it  would  be  ridiculous  to  pretend,  that 
the  art  is  of  no  advantage,  because  the  practice  is  founded  in  nature. 
Propriety  and  beauty  of  speech,  are  certainly  as  improveable  as  the 
ear  or  the  voice;  and  to  know  the  principles  of  this  beauty,  or  the  rea- 
sons which  render  one  figure,  or  one  manner  of  speech,preferable  tfv 
another,  cannot  fail  to  assist  and  direct  a  proper  choice 


lect.  xiv.]        FIGURATIVE  LANGUAGE.  149 

But  I  must  observe,  in  the  next  place,  that  although  this  part  of 
style  merits  attention,  and  is  a  very  proper  object  of  science  <md 
rule;  although  much  of  the  beauty  of  composition  depends  on 
figurative  language ;  yet  we  must  beware  of  imagining  that  it  de- 
pends solely,  or  even  chiefly,  upon  such  language.  It  is  not  so. 
The  great  place  which  the  doctrine  of  tropes  and  figures  has  occu- 
pied in  systems  of  rhetoric  ;  the  over-anxious  care  which  has  been 
shown  in  giving  names  to  avast  variety  of  them,  and  in  ranging  them 
under  different  classes,  has  often  led  persons  to  imagine,  that  if 
their  composition  was  well  bespangled  with  a  number  of  these  orna- 
ments of  speech,  it  wanted  no  other  beauty:  whence  has  arisen  much 
stiffness  and  affectation.  For  it  is,  in  truth,  the  sentiment  or  pas- 
sion, which  lies  under  the  figured  expression,  that  gives  it  any  merit. 
The  figure  is  only  the  dress ;  the  sentiment  is  the  body  and  the  sub- 
stance. No  figures  will  render  a  cold  or  an  empty  composition  in- 
teresting ;  whereas,  if  a  sentiment  be  sublime  or  pathetic,  it  can 
support  itself  perfectly  well,  without  any  borrowed  assistance. 
Hence,  several  of  the  most  affecting  and  admired  passages  of  the 
best  authors,  are  expressed  in  the  simplest  language.  The  follow- 
ing sentiment  from  Virgil,  for  instance,  makes  its  way  at  once  to 
the  heart,  without  the  help  of  any  figure  whatever.  He  is  descri- 
bing an  Argive,  who  falls  in  battle,  in  Italy,  at  a  great  distance  from 
his  native  country : 

Stemitur,  infelix,  alieno  vulnere,  coelumque 

Aspicit,  et  dulcis  moriens  reminiscitur  Argos*  JEn.  x.  7S1 

A  single  stroke  of  this  kind,  drawn  as  by  the  very  pencil  of  na- 
ture, is  worth  a  thousand  figures.  In  the  same  manner,  the  sim 
pie  style  of  scripture:  'He  spoke,  and  it  was  done;  he  command- 
ed, and  it  stood  fast/  'God  said,  let  there  be  light;  and  there 
was  light;'  imparts  a  lofty  conception, to  much  greater  advantage, 
than  if  it  had  been  decorated  by  the  most  pompous  metaphors.  The 
fact  is,that  the  strong  pathetic,  and  the  pure  sublime,  not  only  have 
little  dependence  on  figures  of  speech,  but  generally  reject  them. 
The  proper  region  of  these  ornaments  is,  where  a  moderate  degree 
of  elevation  and  passion  is  predominant;  and  there  they  contribute 
to  the  embellishment  of  discourse,  only  when  there   is  a  basis 

*  "  Anthares  had  from  Argos  travell'd  far, 

Alcides'  friend,  and  brother  of  the  war  ; 

Now  falling,  by  another's  wound,  his  eyes 

He  casts  to  Heaven,  on  Argos  thinks,  and  dies." 
Tn  this  translation,  much  of  the  beauty  of  the  original  is  lost.  'On  Argos  thinks, and 
dies,'  is  by  no  means  equal  to  'dulcis  moriens  reminiscitur  Argos  '  '  As  he  dies  he 
i  emembers  his  beloved  Argos.'  It  is  indeed  observable,  that  in  most  of  those  tender 
and  pathetic  passages,  which  do  so  much  honour  to  Virgil,  that  great  poet  expresses 
himself  with  the  utmost  simplicity  ;  as 

Te,  dulcis  conjux,  te  solo  in  littore  secum, 

Te  veniente  die,  te  decedente  canebat.  Georg.  IV. 

And  so  in  that  moving  prayer  of  Evander,  upon  his  parting  with  his  son  Pallas 

At  vos,  0  Superi !  et  Divum  tu  maxime  rector. 
Jupiter,  Arcadii  qua?so  miserescite  regis, 
Et  patrias  audite  preces.     Si  numina  vestra 


150  ORIGIN  AND  NATURE  OF  [lect.  xiv 

ofsolic.  thought  and  natural  sentiment;  when  they  are  inserted  in 
heir  proper  place ;  and  when  they  rise,  of  themselves,  from  the 
subject  without  being  sought  after. 

Having  premised  these  observations,  I  proceed  to  give  an  account 
of  the  origin  and  nature  of  figures:  principally  of  such  as  have  tneir 
dependence  on  language ;  including  that  numerous  tribe  which  the 
rhetoricians  call  tropes. 

At  the  first  rise  of  language,  men  would  begin  with  giving  names 
to  the  different  objects  which  they  discerned,  or  thought  of.  This 
nomenclature  would,  at  the  beginning,  be  very  narrow.  According 
as  men's  ideas  multiplied,  and  their  acquaintance  with  objects  in- 
creased, their  stock  of  names  and  words  would  increase  also.  But 
to  the  infinite  variety  of  objects  and  ideas,  no  language  is  adequate. 
No  language  is  so  copious,  as  to  have  a  separate  word  for  every  se- 
parate idea.  Men  naturally  sought  to  abridge  this  labour  of  multi- 
plying words  in  infinitum  ;  and,  in  order  to  lay  less  burden  on  their 
memories,  made  one  word,  which  they  had  already  appropriated  to  a 
certain  idea  or  object,  stand  also  for  some  other  idea  or  object;  between 
which  and  the  primary  one,  they  found,  or  fancied,  some  relation. 
Thus,  the  preposition,  in,  was  originally  invented  to  express  the  cir- 
cumstance of  place:  'The  man  was  killed  in  the  wood.'  In  pro- 
gress of  time,  words  were  wanted  to  express  men's  being  connected 
with  certain  conditions  of  fortune,  or  certain  situations  of  mind;  and 
some  resemblance,  or  analogy,  being  fancied  between  these,  and  the 
place  of  bodies,  the  word  in,  was  employed  to  express  men's  being 
so  circumstanced  ;  as,  one's  being  in  health,  or  in  sickness,  in  pros- 
perity or  m  adversity,  mjoy  or  in  grief,  in  doubt,  or  m  danger,  or  in 
safety.  Here  we  see  this  preposition,  in,  plainly  assuming  a  tropical 
signification,  or  carried  off  from  its  original  meaning,  to  signify  some- 
thing else  which  relates  to,  or  resembles  it. 

Tropes  of  this  kind  abound  in  all  languages,  and  are  plainly  ow- 
ing to  the  want  of  proper  words.  The  operations  of  the  mind  and 
affections,  in  particular,  are,  in  most  languages,  described  by  words 
taken  from  sensible  objects.  The  reason  is  plain.  The  names  of 
sensible  objects  were,  in  all  languages,  the  words  most  early 
introduced;  and  were,  by  degrees,  extended  to  those  mental  ob- 
jects, of  which  men  had  more  obscure  conceptions,  and  to  which 
they  found  it  more  difficult  to  assign  distinct  names.  They  borrow- 
ed, therefore,  the  name  of  some  sensible  idea,  where  their  imagina- 
lion  found  some  affinity.  Thus,  we  speak  of  a  piercing  judgment, 
and  a  clear  head ;  a  soft  or  a  hard  heart ;  a  rough  or  a  smooth  beha- 
viour.  We  say,  inflamed  by  anger,  warmed  by  love ;  swelled  with 

Incolumem  Pallanta  mihi,  si  fata  reservant, 

Si  visurus  eum  vivo,  et  venturus  in  unum, 

Vitam  oro ;  patiar  quemvis  durarc  laborem  ■ 

Sin  aliquem  infandum  casum,  Fortuna,  minaris, 

Nunc,  O  nunc  liceat  crudelem  abrumpere  vitam  ! 

Dum  curs  ambigua?,  dum  spes  incerta  futon ; 

Dum  te,  chare  Puer  !  mea  sera  et  sola  voluptas  ? 

Amplexu  teneo;  gravior  ne  nuncius  aures 

Vuhieret —  je*.  VIII.  672. 


i.ect.  xiv.]  FIGURATIVE  LANGUAGE.  151 

pride,  melted  into  grief ;  and  these  are  almost  the  only  significant 
words  which  we  have  for  such  ideas. 

But,  although  the  barrenness  of  languages,  and  the  want  of  words,  be 
doubtless  one  cause  of  the  invention  of  tropes;  yet  it  is  not  the  only, 
nor,  perhaps,  even  the  principal  source  of  this  form  of  speech.  Tropes 
have  arisen  more  frequently,  and  spread  themselves  wider,  from  the  in- 
fluence which  imagination  possesses  over  language.  The  train  on  which 
this  has  proceeded  among  all  nations,  I  shall  endeavour  to  explain. 
Every  object  which  makes  any  impression  on  the  human  mind,  is 
constantly  accompanied  with  certain  circumstances  and  relations, 
that  strike  us  at  the  same  time.  It  never  presents  itself  to  our  view 
isole,  as  the  French  express  it ;  that  is,  independent  on,  and  sepa- 
rated from,  every  other  thing;  but  always  occurs  as  somehow 
related  to  other  objects ;  going  before  them,  or  following  them  ; 
their  effect  or  their  cause:  resembling  them,  or  opposed  to  them; 
distinguished  by  certain  qualities,  or  surrounded  with  certain  circum- 
stances. By  this  means,  every  idea  or  object  carries  in  its  train 
some  other  ideas,  which  may  be  considered  as  its  accessories.  These 
accessories  often  strike  the  imagination  more  than  the  principal  idea 
itself.  They  are,  perhaps,  more  agreeable  ideas ;  or  they  are  more 
familiar  to  our  conceptions ;  or  they  recall  to  our  memory  a  greater 
variety  of  important  circumstances.  The  imagination  is  more  dis- 
posed to  rest  upon  some  of  them  ;  and  therefore,  instead  of  using 
the  proper  name  of  the  principal  idea  which  it  means  to  express,  it 
employs  in  its  place  the  name  of  the  accessory  or  correspondent 
idea ;  although  the  principal  have  a  proper  and  well  known  name  of 
its  own.  Hence  a  vast  variety  of  tropical  or  figurative  words  obtain 
currency  in  all  languages,  through  choice,  not  necessity;  and  men 
of  lively  imaginations  are  every  day  adding  to  their  number. 

Thus,  when  we  design  to  intimate  the  period  at  wThich  a  state  en- 
joyed most  reputation  or  glory,  it  were  easy  to  employ  the  proper 
words  for  expressing  this ;  but  as  this  is  readily  connected,  in  our 
imagination,  with  the  flourishing  period  of  a  plant  or  a  tree,  we  lay 
hold  of  this  correspondent  idea,  and  say,  '  The  Roman  empire 
flourished  most  under  Augustus.'  The  leader  of  a  faction  is  plain 
language :  but  because  the  head  is  the  principal  part  of  the  human 
body,  and  is  supposed  to  direct  all  the  animal  operations,  resting 
upon  this  resemblance,  we  say,  '  Catiline  was  the  head  of  the  par- 
ty.' The  word  voice,  was  originally  invented  to  signify  the  arti- 
culate sound,  formed  by  the  organs  of  the  mouth  ;  but,  as  by  means 
of  it  men  signify  their  ideas  and  their  intentions  to  each  other,  voice 
sooVi  assumed  a  great  many  other  meanings,  all  derived  from  this 
primary  effect.  *  To  give  our  voice'  for  any  thing,  signified,  to 
give  our  sentiment  in  favour  of  it.  Not  only  so ;  but  voice  was 
transferred  to  signify  any  intimation  of  will  or  judgment,  though 
given  without  the  least  interposition  of  voice  in  its  literal  sense,  or 
any  sound  uttered  at  all.  Thus  we  speak  of  listening  to  the  voice 
of  conscience,  the  voice  of  nature,  the  voice  of  God.  This  usage 
takes  place,  not  so  much  from  barrenness  of  language,  or  want  oi 
a  proper  word,   as  from  an  allusion  which  we  choose  to  make  to 


152  ORIGIN  AND  NATURE  OF  [lect.  xiv 

voice  in  its  primary  sense,  in  order  to  convey  our  idea,  connected 
with  a  circumstance  which  appears  to  the  fancy  to  give  it  more 
sprightliness  and  force. 

The  account  which  I  have  now  given,  and  which  seems  to  be 
full  and  fair  one,  of  the  introduction  of  tropes  into  all  languages, 
coincides  with  what  Cicero  briefly  hints,  ill  his  third  book,  De 
Oratore.  f  Modus  transferendi  verba  late  patet ;  quam  recessitas 
primum  genuit,  coacta  inopia  et  angustia  ;  post  autem  delectatio, 
jucunditasque  celebravit.  Nam  ut  vestis,  frigoris  depellendi  causa 
reperta  pnmo,  post  adhiberi  capta  est  ad  ornatum  etiam  corporis  et 
dignitatem,  sic  verbi  translatio  instituta  est  inopise  causa,  frequentata 
delectationis.'* 

From  what  has  been  said,  it  clearly  appears  how  that  must  come 
to  pass,  which  I  had  occasion  to  mention  in  a  former  lecture,  that 
all  languages  are  most  figurative  in  their  early  state.  Both  the  cau- 
ses to  which  I  ascribed  the  origin  of  figures,  concur  in  producing 
this  effect  at  the  beginnings  of  society.  Language  is  then  most  bar- 
ren :  the  stock  of  proper  names  which  have  been  invented  for  things, 
is  small ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  imagination  exerts  great  influence 
over  the  conceptions  of  men,  and  their  method  of  uttering  them  ; 
so  that,  both  from  necessity  and  from  choice,  their  speech  will,  at 
that  period,  abound  in  tropes  ;  for  the  savage  tribes  of  men  are 
always  much  given  to  wonder  and  astonishment.  Every  new  object 
surprises,  terrifies,  and  makes  a  strong  impression  on  their  mind  ; 
they  are  governed  by  imagination  and  passion,  more  than  by  rea- 
son ;  and  of  course,  their  speech  must  be  deeply  tinctured  by  their 
genius.  In  fact,  we  find,  that  this  is  the  character  of  the  American 
and  Indian  languages :  bold,  picturesque,  and  metaphorical ;  full  of 
strong  allusions  to  sensible  qualities,  and  to  such  objects  as  struck 
them  most  in  their  wild  and  solitary  life.  An  Indian  chief  makes  a 
harangue  to  his  tribe,  in  a  style  full  of  stronger  metaphors  than  an 
European  would  use  in  an  epic  poem. 

As  language  makes  gradual  progress  towards  refinement,  almost 
every  object  comes  to  have  a  proper  name  given  to  it,  and  perspi- 
cuity and  precision  are  more  studied.  But  still,  for  the  reasons 
before  given,  borrowed  words,  or  as  rhetoricians  call  them,  tropes, 
must  continue  to  occupy  a  considerable  place.  In  every  language, 
too,  there  are  a  multitude  of  words,  which,  though  they  were  figu- 
rative in  their  first  application  to  certain  objects,  yet,  by  long  use, 
lose  their  figurative  power  wholly,  and  come  to  be  considered  as 
simple  and  literal  expressions.  In  this  case,  are  the  terms  which  I 
remarked  before,  as  transferred  from  sensible  qualities  to  the  ope- 
rations or  qualities  of  the  mind,  a  piercing  judgment,  a.  clear  head, 

*  '  The  figurative  usage  of  words  is  very  extensive  ;  an  usage  to  which  necessity 
first  gave  rise,  on  account  of  the  paucity  of  words,  and  barrenness  of  language  ;  bu. 
which  the  pleasure  that  was  found  in  it  afterwards  rendered  frequent.  For  as  gar- 
ments were  first  contrived  to  defend  our  bodies  from  the  cold,  and  afterwards  were 
employed  for  the  purpose  of  ornament  and  dignity,  so  figures  of  speech,  introduced  by 
^ant,  were  cultivated  for  the  sake  of  entertainment' 


lect.  xiv.]  FIGURATIVE  LANGUAGE.  153 

a  hard  heart,  and  the  like.  There  are  other  words  which  remain  in  a 
*ort  of  middle  state  ;  which  have  neither  lost  wholly  their  figurative 
application,  nor  yet  retain  so  much  of  it  as  to  imprint  any  remarka- 
ble character  of  figured  language  on  our  style;  such  as  these  phrases, 
'apprehend  one's  meaning:'  'enter  on  a  subject:' 'follow  out  an  argu- 
ment:' 'stirupstrife  :'and  a  great  many  more,  of  which  our  language 
is  full.  In  the  use  of  such  phrases,  correct  writers  will  always  preserve 
a  regard  to  the  figure  or  allusion  on  which  they  are  founded,  and  will 
be  careful  not  to  apply  them  in  any  way  that  is  inconsistent  with  it. 
One  may  be'  sheltered  under  the  patronage  of  a  great  man :'  but  it  were 
wrong  to  say,  'sheltered  under  the  mask  of  dissimulation,' as  a  mask 
conceals,  but  does  not  shelter.  An  object,  in  description,5  may  be 
'clothed,' if  you  will,  'with  epithets;'  but  it  is  not  so  proper  to  speak 
of  its  being  '  clothed  with  circumstances :'  as  the  word '  circumstances' 
alludes  to  standing  round,  not  to  clothing.  Such  attentions  as  these 
to  the  propriety  of  language  are  requisite  in  every  composition. 

What  has  been  said  on  this  subject,  tends  to  throw  light  on  the  na- 
ture of  language  in  general,  and  will  lead  to  the  reasons,  why  tropes 
or  figures  contribute  to  the  beauty  and  grace  of  style. 

First,  They  enrich  language,  and  render  it  more  copious.  By 
their  means,  words  and  phrases  are  multiplied  for  expressing  all 
sorts  of  ideas;  for  describing  even  the  minutest  differences;  the 
nicest  shades  and  colours  of  thought ;  which  no  language  could  pos- 
sibly do  by  proper  words  alone,  without  assistance  from  tropes. 

Secondly,  They  bestow  dignity  upon  style.  The  familiarity  of 
common  words,  to  which  our  ears  are  much  accustomed,  tends  to 
degrade  style.  When  we  want  to  adapt  our  language  to  the  tone  of 
an  elevated  subject,  we  should  be  greatly  at  a  loss,  if  we  could  not 
borrow  assistance  from  figures ;  which,  properly  employed,  have  a 
similar  effect  on  language,  with  what  is  produced  by  the  rich  and 
splendid  dress  of  a  person  of  rank;  to  create  respect,  and  to  give 
an  air  of  magnificence  to  him  who  wears  it.  Assistance  of  this 
kind,  is  often  needed  in  prose  compositions;  but  poetry  could  not 
subsist  without  it.  Hence  figures  form  the  constant  language  of  po- 
etry. To  say,  that '  the  sun  rises,'  is  trite  and  common ;  but  it  becomes 
a  magnificent  image  when  expressed,    as  Mr.  Thomson  has  done : 

But  yonder  comes  the  powerful  king  of  day, 
Rejoicing1  in  the  east.— 

To  say  that  'all  men  are  subject  alike  to  death,'  presents  only  a  vul- 
gar idea;  but  it  rises  and  fills  the  imagination/when  painted  thus  by 
Horace : 

Pallida  mors  aequo  pulsat  pede,  pauperum  tabernas 
Regnmque  turres.* 

Or, 

Omnes  eodem  cogimur ;  omnium 

Versatur  urna,  serius  ocyus, 
Sors  exitura,  et  nos  in  eternum 

Ks ilium  impostura  cymbse. 

*  With  equal  pace,  impartial  fate 

Knocks  at  the  palace,  as  the  cottage  gate. 
Z  20 


154  ORIGIN  AND  NATURE  OF        [lect.  xiv 

In  the  third  place,  figures  give  us  the  pleasure  of  enjoying  two 
objects  presented  together  to  our  view,  without  confusion ;  the  prin- 
cipal idea,  which  is  the  subject  of  the  discourse,  along  with  its  ac- 
cessory, which  gives  it  the  figurative  dress.  We  see  one  thing  in 
another,  as  Aristotle  expresses  it ;  which  is  always  agreeable  to  the 
mind.  For  there  is  nothing  with  which  the  fancy  is  more  del'ghted, 
than  with  comparisons,  and  resemblances  of  objects ;  and  all  tropes 
are  founded  upon  some  relation  or  analogy  between  one  thing  and 
another.  When,  for  instance,  in  place  of  l  youth,'  I  say  the 
1  morning  of  life ;'  the  fancy  is  immediately  entertained  with  all 
the  resembling  circumstances  which  presently  occur  between  these 
two  objects.  At  one  moment,  I  have  in  my  eye  a  certain  period  of 
human  life,  and  a  certain  time  of  the  day,  so  related  to  each  other, 
that  the  imagination  plays  between  them  with  pleasure,  and  contem- 
plates two  similar  objects,  in  one  view,  without  embarrassment  or 
confusion.     Not  only  so,  but, 

In  the  fourth  place,  figures  are  attended  with  this  farther  advan 
tage,  of  giving  us  frequently  a  much  clearer  and  more  striking  view 
of  the  principal  object,  than  we  could  have  of  it  were  it  expressed 
in  simple  terms,  and  divested  of  its  accessory  idea.  This  is,  indeed, 
their  principal  advantage,  in  virtue  of  which,  they  are  very  properly 
said  to  illustrate  a  subject,  or  to  throw  a  light  upon  it.  For  they  ex- 
hibit the  object,  on  which  they  are  employed,  in  a  picturesque  form ; 
they  can  render  an  abstract  conception,  in  some  degree,  an  object 
of  sense;  they  surround  it  with  such  circumstances,  as  enable  the 
mind  to  lay  hold  of  it  steadily,  and  to  contemplate  it  fully.  'Those 
persons,'  says  one,  '  who  gain  the  hearts  of  most  people,  who  are 
chosen  as  the  companions  of  their  softer  hours,  and  their  reliefs  from 
anxiety  and  care,  are  seldom  persons  of  shining  qualities,  or  strong 
virtues :  it  is  rather  the  soft  green  of  the  soul,  on  which  we  rest 
our  eyes,  that  are  fatigued  with  beho  "ling  more  glaring  objects.' 
Here,  by  a  happy  allusion  to  a  colour,  t;ie  whole  conception  is  con- 
veyed clear  and  strong  to  the  mind  in  one  word.  By  a  well 
chosen  figure,  even  conviction  is  assisted,  and  the  impression  of  a 
truth  upon  the  mind  made  more  lively  and  forcible  than  it  would 
otherwise  be.  As  in  the  following;  illustration  of  Dr.  Young's : 
'  When  we  dip  too  deep  in  pleasure,  we  always  stir  a  sediment  that 
renders  it  impure  and  noxious;'  or  in  this, '  A  heart  boiling  with  vio- 
lent passions,  will  always  send  up  infatuating  fumes  to  the  head.'  An 
image  that  presents  so  much  congruity  between  a  moral  and  a  sen- 
sible idea,  serveslike  an  argument  from  analogy,  to  enforce  what  the 
other  asserts,  and  to  induce  belief. 

Besides,  whether  we  are  endeavouring  to  raise  sentiments  of  plea- 
sure or  aversion,  we  can  always  heighten  the  emotion  by  the  figures 
which  we  introduce;  leading  the  imagination  to  a  train,  either  of 

Or, 

We  all  must  tread  the  paths  of  fate ; 

And  ever  shakes  the  mortal  urn  ; 
Whose  lot  embarks  us,  soon  or  late, 

0#  Charon's  boat;  ah!  never  t4  return.  Fkancu 


lect  xiv.]         FIGURATIVE  LANGUAGE.  155 

agreeable  or  disagreeable,  of  exalting  or  debasing  ideas,  correspon 
dent  to  the  impression  which  we  seek  to  make.  When  we  want  to 
render  an  object  beautiful,  or  magnificent,  we  borrow  images  from 
all  the  most  beautiful  or  splendid  scenes  of  nature ;  we  thereby  na- 
turally throw  a  lustre  over  our  object ;  we  enliven  the  reader's  mind, 
and  dispose  him  to  go  along  with  us,  in  the  gay  and  pleasing  impres- 
sions which  we  give  him  of  the  subject.  This  effect  of  figures  is 
happily  touched  in  the  following  lines  of  Dr.  Akensiue,and  illustrat 
ed  by  a  very  sublime  figure  : 

Then  th'  inexpressive  strain 

Diffuses  its  enchantment.     Fancy  dreams 

Of  sacred  fountains  and  Elysian  groves, 

And  vales  of  bliss ;  the  intellectual  power, 

Bends  from  his  awful  throne,  a  wond'ring  ear, 

And  smiles. Pleas,  of  Imaginat.  I.  124. 

What  I  have  now  explained,  concerning  the  use  and  effects  of 
figures,  naturally  leads  us  to  reflect  on  the  wonderful  power  of  lan- 
guage ;  and,  indeed,  we  cannot  reflect  on  it  without  the  highest  ad- 
miration. What  a  fine  vehicle  is  it  now  become  for  all  the  concep- 
tions of  the  human  mind ;  even  for  the  most  subtile  and  delicate 
workings  of  the  imagination !  What  a  pliable  and  flexible  instrument 
in  the  hand  of  one  who  can  employ  it  skilfully;  prepared  to  take 
every  form  which  he  chooses  to  give  it !  Not  content  with  a  simple 
communication  of  ideas  and  thoughts,  it  paints  those  ideas  to  the 
eye  ;  it  giyes  colouring  and  relievo,  even  to  the  most  abstract  con- 
ceptions. In  the  figures  which  it  uses,  it  sets  mirrors  before  us,  where 
we  may  behold  objects,  a  second  time,  in  their  likeness.  It  enter- 
tains us,  as  with  a  succession  of  the  most  splendid  pictures;  disposes 
in  the  most  artificial  manner,  of  the  light  and  shade,  for  viewing  eve- 
ry thing  to  the  best  advantage:  in  fine,  from  being  a  rude  and  im- 
perfect interpreter  of  men's  wants  and  necessities,  it  has  now  passed 
into  an  instrument  of  the  most  delicate  and  refined  luxury. 

To  make  these  effects  of  figurative  language  sensible,  there  are 
few  authors  in  the  English  language  to  whom  I  can  refer  with  more 
advantage  than  Mr.  Addison,  whose  imagination  is  at  once  remark- 
ably rich,  and  remarkably  correct  and  chaste.  When  he  is  treating, 
for  instance,  of  the  effect  which  light  and  colours  have  to  entertain 
the  fancy,  considered  in  Mr.  Locke's  view  of  them  as  secondary 
qualities,  which  have  no  real  existence  in  matter,  but  are  only  ideas 
of  the  mind,  with  what  beautiful  painting  has  he  adorned  this  philo- 
sophic speculation!  'Things,'  says  he,  'would  make  but  a  poor  ap- 
pearance to  the  eye,  if  we  saw  them  only  in  their  proper  figures  and 
motions.  Now,  we  are  every  where  entertained  with  pleasing  shows 
and  apparitions;  we  discover  imaginary  glories  in  the  heavens,  and 
in  the  earth,  and  see  some  of  this  visionary  beauty  poured  out  upon 
the  whole  creation.  But  what  a  rough  unsightly  sketch  of  nature 
should  we  be  entertained  with,  did  all  her  colouring  disappear,  and 
the  several  distinctions  of  light  and  shade  vanish?  In  short,  our  souls 
are  at  present  delightfully  lost,  and  bewildered  in  a  pleasing  delu- 
sion: and  we  walk  about  like  the  enchanted  hero  of  a  romance,  who 
sees  beautiful  castles,  woods,  and  meadows :  and  at  the  same  time 


156  ORIGIN  AND  NATURE  OF  [i-ect.  xiv 

hears  the  warbling  of  birds,  and  the  purling  of  streams;  but,  -apon 
the  finishing  of  some  secret  spell,  the  fantastic  scene  breaks  up,  and 
the  disconsolate  knight  finds  himself  on  a  barren  heath,  or  in  a  soli- 
tary  desert.  It  is  not  improbable,  that  something  like  this  may  be 
the  stale  of  the  soul  after  its  first  separation,  in  respect  of  the  images 
it  will  receive  from  matter.'     No.  413,  Spectator. 

Having  thus  explained,  at  sufficient  length,  the  origin,  the  nature, 
and  the  effects  of  tropes,  I  should  proceed  next  to  the  several  kinds 
and  divisions  of  them.  But,  in  treating  of  these,  were  I  to  follow 
the  common  tract  of  the  scholastic  writers  on  rhetoric,  I  should 
soon  become  tedious,  and,  I  apprehend,  useless  at  the  same  time. 
Their  great  business  has  been,  with  a  most  patient  and  frivolous  in- 
dustry, to  branch  them  out  undera  vast  number  of  divisions,  accord- 
ing to  all  the  several  modes  in  which  a  word  may  be  carried  from  its 
literal  meaning,  into  one  that  is  figurative,  without  doing  any  more; 
as  if  the  mere  knowledge  of  the  names  and  classes  of  all  the  tropes 
that  can  be  formed,  could  be  of  any  advantage  towards  the  proper, 
or  graceful  use  of  language.  All  that  I  purpose  is,  to  give,  in  a  few 
words,  before  finishing  this  lecture,  a  general  view  of  the  several 
sources  whence  the  tropical  meaning  of  words  is  derived :  after 
which  I  shall,  in  subsequent  lectures,  descend  to  a  more  particular 
consideration  of  some  of  the  most  considerable  figures  of  speech, 
and  such  as  are  in  most  frequent  use  ;  by  treating  of  which,  I  shall 
give  all  the  instruction  I  can,  concerning  the  proper  employment 
of  figurative  language,  and  point  out  the  errors  and  abusefrwhich  are 
apt  to  be  committed  in  this  part  of  style. 

All  tropes,  as  I  before  observed,  are  founded  on  the  relation  which 
one  object  bears  to  another;  in  virtue  of  which,  the  name  of  the 
one  can  be  substituted  instead  of  the  name  of  the  other,  and  by  such 
a  substitution,  the  vivacity  of  the  idea  is  commonly  meant  to  be  in- 
creased. These  relations,  some  more,  some  less  intimate,  may.  all 
give  rise  to  tropes.  One  of  the  first  and  most  obvious  relations,  is 
that  between  a  cause  and  its  effect.  Hence,in  figurative  language, 
the  cause  is  sometimes  put  for  the  effect.  Thus,  Mr.  Addison,  writ- 
ing of  Italy  : 

Blossoms,  and  fruits,  and  flowers,  together  rise, 
And  the  whole  year  in  gay  confusion  lies. 

Where  the  '  whole  year'  is  plainly  intended,  to  signify  the  effects  or 
productions  of  all  the  seasons  of  the  year.  At  other  times,  again, 
the  effect  is  put  for  the  cause ;  as, '  gray  hairs'  frequently  for  old  age, 
which  causes  gray  hairs ;  and  '  shade,'  for  trees  that  produce  the 
shade.  The  relation  between  the  container  and  the  thing  contain- 
ed, is  also  so  intimate  and  obvious,  as  naturally  to  give  rise  to 
tropes  : 


-Ille  impiger  hausit 


Spumantem  pateram  et  pleno  se  proluit  auro. 

Where  every  one  sees,  that  the  cup  and  the  gold  are  put  for  the  li- 
quor that  was  contained  in  the  golden  cup.  In  the  same  manner,  the 
name  of  any  country  is  often  used  to  denote  the  inhabitants  of  that 
country;  and  Heaven,  very  often  employed  to  signify  God,  be- 


lect.  xi v.J        FIGURATIVE  LANGUAGE.  1& 

cause  he  is  conceived  as  dwelling  in  Heaven.  To  implore  the  assist- 
ance of  Heaven,  is  the  same  as  to  implore  the  assistance  of  God. 
The  relation  betwixt  any  established  sign  and  the  thing  signified,  is  a 
further  source  of  tropes.     Hence, 

Cedant  arma  togse ;  concedat  laurea  linguae. 

The  '  toga/  being  the  badge  of  the  civil  professions,  and  the  'laurel* 
of  military  honours,  the  badge  of  each  is  put  for  the  civil  and  mili- 
tary characters  themselves.  To  '  assume  the  sceptre,'  is  a  common 
phrase  for  entering  on  royal  authority.  To  tropes,  founded  on  these 
several  relations,  of  cause  and  effect,  container  and  contained,  sign 
and  thing  signified,  is  given  the  name  of  Metonymy. 

When  the  trope  is  founded  on  the  relation  between  an  antecedent 
and  a  consequent,  or  what  goes  before,  and  immediately  follows,  it 
is  then  called  a  Metalepsis;  as  in  the  Roman  phrase  of  '  Fuit,'  or 
'  Vixit,'  to  express  that  one  was  dead.  'Fuit  Ilium  et  ingens  gloria 
Dardanidum,'  signifies,  that  the  glory  of  Troy  is  now  no  more. 

When  the  whole  is  put  for  a  part,  or  a  part  for  the  whole ;  a  ge- 
nus for  a  species,  or  a  species  for  a  genus  ;  the  singular  for  the  plu- 
ral, or  the  plural  for  the  singular  number;  in  general,  when  any  thing 
less,  or  any  thing  more,  is  put  for  the  precise  object  meant;  the 
figure  is  then  called  a  Synecdoche.  It  is  very  common,  for  instance, 
to  describe  a  whole  object  by  some  remarkable  part  of  it ;  as  when 
we  say,  'a  fleet  of  so  many  sail,'  in  the  place  of 'ships;'  when  we 
use  the  '  head'  for  the  '  person,'  the '  pole'  for  the  '  earth,'  the  '  waves' 
for  the '  sea.'  In  like  manner,  an  attribute  may  be  put  for  a  subject ; 
as,  'youth  and  beauty,'  for  'the  young  and  beautiful;'  and  some- 
times a  subject  for  its  attribute.  But  it  is  needless  to  insist  longer  on 
this  enumeration,  which  serves  little  purpose.  I  have  said  enough, 
to  give  an  opening  into  that  great  variety  of  relations  between  ob- 
jects, by  means  of  which,  the  mind  is  assisted  to  pass  easily  from  one 
to  another;  and  understands,  by  the  name  of  the  one,  the  other  to 
he  meant.  It  is  always  some  accessory  idea,  which  recalls  the  prin- 
cipal to  the  imagination;  and  commonly  recalls  it  with  more  force, 
than  if  the  principal  idea  had  been  expressed. 

The  relation  which  is  far  the  most  fruitful  of  tropes  I  have  not  yet 
mentioned  ;  that  is,  the  relation  of  similitude  and  resemblance.  On 
this  is  founded  what  is  called  the  metaphor;  when,  in  place  of  using 
the  proper  name  of  any  object,  we  employ,  in  its  place,  the  name  of 
some  other  which  is  like  it;  which  is  a  sort  of  picture  of  it,  and 
which  thereby  awakens  the  conception  of  it  with  more  force  or 
grace.  This  figure  is  more  frequent  than  all  the  rest  put  together; 
and  the  language,  both  of  prose  a.nd  verse,  owes  to  it  much  of  its 
elegance  and  grace.  This,  therefore,  deserves  very  full  and  par- 
ticular consideration ;  and  shall  be  the  subject  of  the  next  lecture. 


(  157  a  ) 


QUESTIONS. 


Having  finished  what  related  to  the 
construction  of  sentences,  to  what  does 
our  author  proceed  ?  What  was  the  ge- 
neral division  of  the  qualities  of  style  ; 
and  which  has  been  considered  ?  How 
far  has  ornament,  also,  been  treated  of? 
What  is  another,  and  a  great  branch  of 
figurative  language?  What  must  be 
our  first  inquiry  ?  What  do  they  always 
imply?  What  instances  are  given  to 
illustrate  this  remark?  But,  though 
figures  imply  a  deviation  from  the  most 
simple  forms  of  speech,  what  are  we 
not  thence  to  conclude  ?  How  far  is 
this  from  being  the  case ;  and  what  is 
impossible  ?  What  does  this  fact  show? 
What  evidence  have  we  that  they  are 
not  the  invention  of  schools  ?  What  re- 
mark follows  ?  What,  then,  is  it,  wliich 
has  drawn  the  attention  of  critics  and 
rhetoricians  so  much  to  them?  To  this, 


Of  the  figure  and  of  the  dress,  what  is 
observed;  and  what  follows?  Hence, 
how  are  several  of  the  most  affecting 
passages  of  the  best  authors,  express- 
ed ?  Of  the  following  sentiment  from 
Virgil,  what  is  observed  ?  What  is  he 
describing?  Repeat  the  passage;  and 
of  it,  what  is  observed  ?  Of  the  simple 
style  of  scripture,  what  is  here  observed; 
and  what  remark  follows?  Where  is 
the  proper  region  of  these  ornaments ; 
and  there,  when  only  do  they  contri- 
bute to  the  embellishment  of  discourse? 
Having  premised  these  observations,  to 
what  does  our  author  proceed  ?  At  the 
first  rise  of  language,  how  would  men 
begin  in  giving  names  to  objects;  and 
of  this  nomenclature,  what  is  observed  ? 
According  to  what,  would  their  stock 
of  words  increase?  But,  of  the  inade- 
quacy of  language,  here,  what  is  ob 


what  do  they  owe  ;  and  how  is  this  il-  served  ?  How  did  men  seek  to  obviate 


histrated?  How  are  they  compared 
with  simple  expressions?  Hence,  what 
follows?  How  may  figures,  in  general, 
be  fUxscribed  ?  From  what  will  the  just- 
ness jf  this  description  appear  ?  How 
do  rhetoricians  commonly  divide  them? 
What  are  figures  of  words  commonly 
called ;  and  in  what  do  they  consist? 
To  illustrate  this,  what  instance  is 
given  ?  In  what  does  the  trope  consist? 
What  do  figures  of  thought  suppose  ? 
As  in  what  cases  ?  Why  is  not  this  dis- 
tinction of  great  use?  What  is  of  little 
importance,  provided  we  remember 
what?  What,  perhaps, might  be  a  more 
useful  distribution  of  the  subject  ?  With- 
out insisting  on  any  artificial  division, 
what  maybe  useful?  The  first  of  these 
general  observations,  is  concerning 
what  ?  What  is  here  admitted  ?  What 
dictates  the  use  of  figures ;  and  what 
illustration  is  given?  What,  however, 
will  not  follow  thence;  and  why?  Of 
practice,  and  method  and  rule,  what  is 
observed?  With  what,  do  we  every 
day  meet;  yet,  what  has  been  found  of 
importance  ?  Of  propriety  and  beauty 
of  speech,  what  is  observed?  In  the 
next  place,  what  must  be  observed  ? 
What  has  often  led  persons  to  imagine, 
that  if  their  composition  was  well 
bespangled  with  these  ornaments  of 
speech,  it  wanted  no  other  beauty? 
Hence,  what  has  arisen;   and  why? 


this  difficulty ;  and  what  example  it 
given  ?  In  progress  of  time,  how  was 
the  word  in  employed ;  and  here,  what 
do  we  see?  Where  do  tropes  of  this 
kind  abound;  and  to  what  are  they 
owing  ?  How  are  the  operations  of  the 
mind,  and  affections  in  particular,  in 
most  languages,  described ;  and  for 
what  reason  ?  What  did  they  therefore 
borrow;  and  what  examples  have  we? 
But,  although  the  barrenness  of  lan- 
guage, and  the  want  of  words,  be  one 
cause  of  the  invention  of  tropes,  yet, 
what  does  not  follow?  From  what, 
then,  have  they  arisen  ?  With  what  is 
every  object,  that  makes  an  impression 
on  the  mind,  constantly  accompanied  ? 
How  does  it  never  present  itself  to  our 
view  ?  By  this  means,  what  does  every 
idea,  or  object,  carry  in  its  train  ;  and 
how  do  these  often  strike  the  imagi- 
nation ?  Of  them,  what  is  farther  ob 
served?  As  the  imagination  is  more 
disposed  to  rest  upon  them,  what  fol 
lows  ?  Hence,  what  has  been  the  con- 
sequence? How  is  this  remark  illus- 
trated ;  and  what  example  is  given? 
On  the  sentence,  the  leader  of  afac 
tion,  and  on  the  word  voice,  what  is  ob- 
served? From  what  allusion,  particu- 
larly, does  this  usage  take  place  ? 

With  what  does  the  account  now 
given,  coincide?  Repeat  the  passage. 
From  what  has  been  said,  what  clear 


LECT.  XIV.] 


QUESTIONS. 


157  o 


V  appears?  What  concur  in  producing 
this  effect,  at  the  beginnings  of  society; 
and  why  ?  To  what  are  the  savage 
tribes  ol*  men  always  much  given ;  and 
what,  consequently,  is  the  effect  of 
every  new  object  ?  By  what  are  they 
governed;  and  what  follows?  Of  what 
language  do  we  find  this  to  be  the  cha- 
racter ?  Of  the  style  of  an  Indian  chief's 
harangue,  what  is  observed?  In  the 
a  dvancement  of  language  towards  re- 
finement, why  are  perspicuity  and 
precision  more  studied  ?  But  still,  what 
must  continue  to  occupy  a  considerable 
place  ?  In  every  language,  what  do  we 
find?  In  this  case,  are  what  terms? 
Of  those  words  which  remain  in  a  sort 
of  middle  state,  what  is  observed? 
What  phrases  are  given  as  examples  ? 
In  the  use  of  such  phrases,  what  will 
correct  writers  always  preserve  ?  Hew 
is  this  illustrated  ?  Where  are  such  at- 
tentions requisite?  On  what,  does  what 
has  been  6aid  on  this  subject  tend  to 
throw  light ;  and  to  what  will  it  lead  ? 
What  is  the  first  reason ;  and  how  does 
this  appear?  In  the  second  place,  what 
is  their  effect?  To  what  does  the  fami- 
liarity of  common  words  tend ;  and  how 
is  this  illustrated  ?  Where  is  assistance 
of  this  kind  often  needed ;  and  where  is 
it  essential  ?  Hence,  what  do  figures 
form ;  and  how  is  this  illustrated ?  In 
the  third  place,  what  peculiar  pleasure 
do  figures  give  us  ?  What  do  we  see ; 
and  why  ?  To  illustrate  this,  what  in- 
stance is  given  ?  At  the  eame  moment, 
what  have  we  before  us  ?  In  the  fourth 
place,  with  what  further  advantages 
are  figures  attended  ?  Of  this  advan- 
tage, what  is  observed ;  and  for  what 
reason  ?  To  illustrate  this  remark,  what 
sentence  is  introduced  from  Burke  ?  On 
this  sentence,  what  is  remarked  ?  How 
is  the  same  principle  illustrated  from 
Dr.  Young  ?  What  is  the  effect  of  such 
an  image  as  is  here  introduced  ?  Be- 
sides, by  figures,  what  effect  can  we 
produce  ?  When  we  want  to  render  an 
object  beautiful  or  magnificent,  what 
course  do  we  pursue ;  and  what  effect 
rs  thereby  produced?  In  what  lines  of 
Dr.  Akenside  is  this  effect  of  figures 
happily  touched  ?  To  what,  does  what 
has  been  explained,  naturally  lead? 
Repeat  the  remarks  here  introduced  on 
»he  present  state  of  perfection,  in  which 


language  is  found.  Of  Mr.  Addison, 
what  is  here  remarked?  What  instance 
is  mentioned  ?  Repeat  the  passage. 
Having  thus  explained  the  origin,  the 
nature,  and  the  effect  of  tropes,  to  what 
does  our  author  next  proceed  ?  In  treat- 
ing of  these,  what  would  be  the  effect 
of  following  the  scholastic  writers  on 
rhetoric  ?  What  has  been  their  great 
business?  What  does  our  author  pro- 
pose ?  On  what  are  all  tropes,  as  was 
before  observed,  founded  ;  and  in  virtue 
of  which,  what  can  be  done  ?  What  is 
one  of  the  first  and  most  obvious  of 
these  relations ;  and  hence,  what  fol- 
lows ?  What  instance  is  given  ?  Here, 
for  what  is  the  whole  year  plainly  in- 
tended ?  Repeat  the  instance  in  which 
the  effect  is  put  for  the  cause?  Of  the 
relation  between  the  container,  and  the 
thing  contained,  what  is  observed  ? 
What  instances  are  given  ?  Of  the  re- 
lation between  a  sign,  and  the  thing 
signified,  what  is  observed?  To  what 
tropes  is  the  name  Metonomy  given? 
When  is  a  trope  called  a  Metalepsis  ? 
When  is  the  figure  called  a  Synec- 
doche? How  is  this  illustrated?  To 
give  an  opening  of  what,  has  enough 
been  said  ?  It  is  always  an  idea  of  what 
kind ;  and  with  what  force  does  it  re- 
call the  principal  idea  to  the  imagina- 
tion? What  relation  is  far  the  most 
fruitful  in  tropes  ?  On  it,  what  is  found- 
ed ;  and  what  is  observed  of  it  ?  Of  this 
figure,  what  is  farther  remarked  ? 


ANALYSIS. 

Figures. 

1.  Introductory  remarks. 

2.  Origin  and  nature  of  figures. 

3.  Language  most  figurative  in  its 

early  state. 

4.  The  advantages  of  figures. 
a.  They  enrich  language. 

B.  They  bestow  dignity  upon  style. 
c.  They  present  two  objects  to  our 

view  at  the  same  time. 
D.  They  render  our  views  more 

distinct. 

5.  The  different  kinds  of  figures. 

A.  Metonomy. 

B.  Metalepsis. 
c.  Synecdoche. 


(  158  ) 

LECTURE  XV. 

METAPHOR. 

After  the  preliminary  observations  I  have  made,  relating  to 
figurative  language  in  general,  I  come  now  to  treat  separately  of 
such  figures  of  speech,  as  occur  most  frequently,  and  require  par- 
ticular attention;  and  I  begin  with  metaphor.    This  is  a  figure  foun- 
ded entirely  on  the  resemblance  which  one  object  bears  to  another. 
Hence,  it  is  much  allied  to    simile,   or   comparison,   and   is   in- 
deed   no   other   than    a    comparison    expressed   in    an   abridged 
form.     When  I  say  of  some  great  minister,   '  that  he  upholds 
the   state,  like  a  pillar  which  supports  the  weight  of  a  whole 
edifice,'  I  fairly  make  a  comparison;   but  when  I  say  of  such  a 
minister  '  that  he  is  the  pillar  of  the  state/  it  is  now  become  a 
metaphor.      The  comparison  betwixt  the  minister  and  a  pillar,  is 
made  in  the  mind  ;  but  is  expressed  without  any  of  the  words  that 
denote  comparison.     The  comparison  is  only  insinuated,  not  ex- 
pressed:  the  one  object  is  supposed  to  be  so  like  the  other,  that, 
without  formally  drawing  the  comparison,  the  name  of  the  one 
may  be  put  in  the  place  of  the  name  of  the  other.      'The  minister 
is  the  pillar  of  the  state.'     This,  therefore,  is  a  more  lively  and 
animated  manner  of  expressing  the  resemblances  which  imagination 
traces  among  objects.     There  is  nothing  which  delights  the  fancy 
more,  than  this  act  of  comparing  things  together,  discovering  re- 
semblances between  them,  and  describing  them  by  their  likeness. 
The  mind  thus  employed,  is  exercised  without  being  fatigued;  and 
is  gratified  with  the  consciousness  of  its  own  ingenuity.     We  need 
not  be  surprised,  therefore,  at  finding  all  language  tinctured  strongly 
with  metaphor.    It  insinuates  itself  even  into  familiar  conversation  ; 
and  unsought,  rises  up  of  its  own  accord  in  the  mind.     The  very 
words  which  I  have  casually  employed  in  describing  this,  are  a  proof 
of  what  I  say;  tinctured,  insinuates,  rises  up,  are  all  of  them  meta- 
phorical expressions,  borrowed  from  some  resemblance  which  fancy 
forms  between  sensible  objects,  and  the  internal  operations  of  the 
mind;  and  yet  the  terms  are  no  less  clear,  and  perhaps,  more  ex- 
pressive, than  if  words  had  been  used    which  were  to  be  taken  in 
the  strict  and  literal  sense. 

Though  all  metaphor  imports  comparison,  and  therefore  is,  in 
that  respect,  a  figure  of  thought;  yet,  as  the  words  in  a  metaphor 
are  not  taken  literally,  but  changed  from  their  proper  to  a  figurative 
sense,  the  metaphor  is  commonly  ranked  among  tropes  or  figures  ot 
words.  But  provided  the  nature  of  it  be  well  understood,  it  signi- 
fies very  little  whether  we  call  it  a  figure  or  a  trope.  I  have  confined 
it  to  the  expression  of  resemblance  between  two  objects.  I  must 
remark,  however,  that  the  word  metaphor  is  sometimes  used  in  a 
looser  and  more  extended  sense;  for  the  application  of  a  term  in 
any  figurative  signification,  whether  the  figure  be  founded  onresem- 


lect.  xv.]  METAPHOR.  159 

blance,  or  on  some  other  relation,  which  two  objects  bear  to  one. 
another.  For  instance;  when  gray  ha;rs  are  put  for  old  age;  as, 
Ho  bring  one's  gray  hairs  with  sorrow  to  t'  *.  grave;'  some  writers 
would  call  this  a  metaphor,  though  it  is  not  properly  one,  but  what 
rhetoricians  call  a  metonymy;  that  is,  the  effect  put  for  the  cause;' 
'  gray  hairs'  being  the  effect  of  old  age,  but  not  bearing  any  sort  oi 
resemblance  to  it.  Aristotle,  in  his  Poetics,  uses  metaphor  in  this 
extended  sense,  for  any  figurative  meaning  imposed  upon  a  word; 
as  a  whole  put  for  the  part,  or  a  part  for  the  whole ;  a  species  for 
the  genus,  or  a  genus  for  the  species.  But  it  would  be  unjust  to 
tax  this  most  acute  writer  with  any  inaccuracy  on  this  account;  the 
minute  subdivisions,  and  various  names  of  tropes,  being  unknown  in 
his  days,  and  the  invention  of  later  rhetoricians.  Now,  however, 
when  these  divisions  are  established,  it  is  inaccurate  to  call  every 
figurative  use  of  terms,  promiscuously,  a  metaphor. 

Of  all  the  figures  of  speech,  none  comes  so  near  to  painting  as 
metaphor.  Its  peculiar  effect  is  to  give  light  and  strength  to  de/-. 
scription;  to  make  intellectual  ideas,  in  some  sort,  visible  to  the 
eye,  by  giving  them  colour,  and  substance,  and  sensible  quali- 
ties. In  order  to  produce  this  effect,  however,  a  delicate  hand 
is  required:  for,  by  a  very  little  inaccuracy,  we  are  in  hazard 
of  introducing  confusion,  in  place  of  promoting  perspicuity.  Se- 
veral rules,  therefore,  are  necessary  to  be  given  for  the  proper 
management  of  metaphors.  But  before  enteiing  on  these,  I  shall 
give  one  instance  of  a  very  beautiful  metaphor,  that  I  may  show 
Lhe  figure  to  full  advantage.  I  shall  take  my  instance  from  Lord 
Bolingbroke's  remarks  on  the  History  of  England.  Just  at  the  con- 
clusion of  his  work,  he  is  speaking  of  the  behaviour  of  Charles  I. 
to  his  last  parliament;  '  In  a  word,'  says  he,  'about  a  month  after 
their  meeting,  he  dissolved  them;  and,  as  soon  as  he  had  dissolved 
them,  he  repented ;  but  he  repented  too  late  of  his  rashness.  Well 
might  he  repent;  for  the  vessel  was  now  full,  and  this  last  drop 
made  the  waters  of  bitterness  overflow.'  'Here,'  he  adds,  'we 
draw  the  curtain,  and  put  an  end  to  our  remarks.'  Nothing  could 
be  more  happily  thrown  off.  The  metaphor,  we  see,  is  continued 
through  several  expressions.  The  vessel  is  put  for  the  state,  or  tem- 
per of  the  nation,  already  full,  that  is,  provoked  to  the  highest  by 
farmer  oppressions  and  wrongs;  this  last  drop,  stands  for  the  pro- 
vocation recently  received  by  the  abrupt  dissolution  of  the  parlia- 
ment; and  the  overflowing  of  the  waters  of  bitterness,  beautifully 
expresses  all  the  effects  of  resentment,  let  loose  by  an  exasperated 
people. 

On  this  passage,  we  may  make  two  remarks  in  passing.  The 
one,  that  nothing  forms  a  more  spirited  and  dignified  conclusion  of 
a  subject,  than  a  figure  of  this  kind  happily  placed  at  the  close. 
We  see  the  effect  of  it,  in  this  instance.  The  author  goes  off  with 
a  good  grace;  and  leaves  a  strong  and  full  impression  of  his  subject 
on  the  reader's  mind.  My  other  remark  is,  the  advantage  which 
a  melaphor  frequently  has  above  a  formal  comparison.  How  much 
would  the  sentiment  here  have  been  enfeebled,  If  :t  had  been  ex 
2  A 


160  METAPHOR.  [lect.  *r 

pressed  in  the  style  of  a  regular  simile,  thus:  •  Well  might  he  re- 
pent; for  the  state  of  the  nation,  loaded  with  grievances  and  pro- 
vocations, resembled  a  vessel  that  was  now  full,  and  this  superadded 
provocation,  like  the  last  drop  infused,  made  their  rage  and  resent- 
ment, as  waters  of  bitterness,  overflow.'  It  has  infinitely  more 
spirit  and  force  as  it  now  stands,  in  the  form  of  a  metaphor.  '  Well 
might  he  repent:  for  the  vessel  was  now  full;  and  this  last  drop 
made  the  waters  of  bitterness  overflow.' 

Having  mentioned,  with  applause,  this  instance  from  Lord  Bohng- 
broke,  I  think  it  incumbent  on  me  here  to  take  notice,  that,  thougli 
I  may  have  recourse  to  this  author,  sometimes,  for  examples  of  style, 
it  is  his  style  only,  and  not  his  sentiments,  that  deserve  praise.  It  is 
indeed  my  opinion,  that  there  are  few  writings  in  the  English  lan- 
guage, which,  for  the  matter  contained  in  them,  can  be  read  with  less 
profit  of  fruit,  than  Lord  Bolingbroke's  works.  His  political  writ- 
ings have  the  merit  of  a  very  lively  and  eloquent  style  ;  but  they  have, 
no  other;  being,  as  to  the  substance,  the  mere  temporary  productions 
of  faction  and  party;  no  better,  indeed,  than  pamphlets  written  for 
the  day.  His  posthumous,  or  as  they  are  called,  his  philosophi- 
cal works,  wherein  he  attacks  religion,  have  still  less  merit;  for  they 
are  as  loose  in  the  style  as  they  are  flimsy  in  the  reasoning.  An  un- 
happy instance,  this  author  is,  of  parts  and  genius  so  miserably  per- 
verted by  faction  and  passion,  that,  as  his  memory  will  descend 
to  posterity  with  little  honour,  so  his  productions  will  soon  pass,  and 
are,  indeed,  already  passing  into  neglect  and  oblivion. 

Returning  from  this  digression  to  the  subject  before  us,  I  proceed 
to  lay  down  the  rules  to  be  observed  in  the  conduct  of  metaphors; 
and  which  are  much  the  same  for  tropes  of  every  kind. 
»  The  first  which  1  shall  mention,  is,  that  they  be  suited  to  the  nature 
of  the  subject  of  which  we  treat ;  neither  too  many,  nor  too  gay,  nor 
too  elevated  for  it;  that  we  neither  attempt  to  force  the  subject,  by 
means  of  them,  into  a  degree  of  elevation  which  is  not  congruous  to 
it;  nor,  on  the  other  hand,  allow  it  to  sink  below  its  proper  dignity. 
This  is  a  direction  which  belongs  to  all  figurative  language,  and  should 
be  ever  kept  in  view.  Some  metaphors  are  allowable,  nay,  beautiful, 
in  poetry,  which  it  would  be  absurd  and  unnatural  to  employ  in  prose ; 
some  may  be  graceful  in  orations,  which  would  be  very  improper  in 
historical  or  philosophical  composition.  We  must  remember,  that 
figures  are  the  dress  of  our  sentiments.  As  there  is  a  natural  con- 
gruity  between  dress,  and  the  character  or  rank  of  the  person  who 
wears  it,  a  violation  of  which  congruity  never  fails  to  hurt;  the  same 
holds  precisely  as  to  the  application  of  figures  to  sentiment.  The 
excessive,  or  unseasonable  employment  of  them,  is  mere  foppery  in 
writing.  It  gives  a  boyish  air  to  composition ;  and  instead  of  raising 
a  subject,  in  fact,  diminishes  its  dignity.  For,  as  in  life,  true  digni- 
ty must  be  founded  on  character,  not  on  dress  and  appearance,  so 
the  dignity  of  composition  must  arise  from  sentiment  and  thought, 
not  from  ornament.  The  affectation  and  parade  of  ornament,  de- 
tract as  much  from  an  author,  as  they  do  from  a  man.  Figures  and 
metaphors,  therefore,  should  on  no  occasion  be  stuck  on  too  pro 


lect.  xv.]  METAPHOR.  161 

fusely  ;  and  never  should  be  such  as.  refuse  to  accord  with  the 
strain  of  our  sentiment.  Nothing  can  be  more  unnatural,  than  for 
a  writer  to  carry  on  a  train  of  reasoning,  in  the  same  sort  of  figura- 
tive language,  which  he  would  use  in  description.  When  he  reasons, 
we  look  only  for  perspicuity;  when  he  describes,  we  expect  embel- 
lishment ;  when  he  divides,  or  relates,  we  desire  plainness  and  sim- 
plicity. One  of  the  greatest  secrets  in  composition  is,  to  know 
when  to  be  simple.  This  always  gives  a  heightening  to  ornament, 
in  its  proper  place.  The  right  disposition  of  the  shade,  makes  the 
light  and  colouring  strike  the  more:  'Is  enim  est  eloquens,'  says 
Cicero,  'qui  et  humilia  subtiliter,  et  magna  graviter,  et  mediocria 
temperate  potest  dicere.  Nam  qui  nihil  potest tranquille,  nihil  leni- 
ter,  nihil  definite,  distincte,  potest  dicere,  is,  cum  non  praeparatis  au- 
ribus  infiammare  rem  coepit,  furere  apud  sanos,  et  quasi  inter  sobri- 
os  bacchari  temulentus  videtur.'*  This  admonition  should  be  par- 
ticularly attended  to  by  young  practitioners  in  the  art  of  writing, 
who  are  apt  to  be  carried  away  by  an  undistinguishing  admiration 
of  what  is  showy  and  florid,  whether  in  its  place  or  not.t 

The  second  rule  which  I  give,  respects  the  choice  of  objects, 
from  whence  metaphors,  and  other  figures,  are  to  be  drawn.  The 
field  for  figurative  language  is  very  wide.  All  nature,  to  speak  in 
the  style  of  figures,  opens  its  stores  to  us,  and  admits  us  to  gather, 
from  all  sensible  objects,  whatever  can  illustrate  intellectual  or  moral 
ideas.  Not  only  the  gay  and  splendid  objects  of  sense,  but  the  grave, 
the  terrifying,  and  even  the  gloomy  and  dismal,  may,  on  different  oc- 
casions, be  introduced  into  figures  with  propriety.  But  we  must  be- 
ware of  ever  using  such  allusions  as  raise  in  the  mind  disagreeable, 
mean,  vulgar,  or  dirty  ideas.  Even  when  metaphors  are  chosen  in 
order  to  vilify  and  degrade  any  object,  an  author  should  study  never 
to  be  nauseous  in  his  allusions.  Cicero  blames  an  orator  of  his  time, 
for  terming  his  enemy  'Stercus  Curiae;'  '  quamvis  sit  simile,'  says 
he,  'tamen  est  deformis  cogitatio  similitudinis.'  But,  in  subjects  of 
dignity,  it  is  an  unpardonable  fault  to  introduce  mean  and  vulgar  me- 
taphors. In  the  treatise  on  the  Art  of  Sinking,  in  Dean  Swift's  works, 
there  is  a  full  and  humorous  collection  of  instances  of  this  kind, 

*  "  He  is  truly  eloquent,  who  can  discourse  of  humble  subjects  in  a  plain  style,  who 
can  treat  important  ones  with  dignity,  and  speak  of  things  which  are  of  a  middle  na- 
ture, in  a  temperate  strain.  For  one  who,  upon  no  occasion,  can  express  himself  in  n 
calm,  orderly,  distinct  manner,  when  he  begins  to  be  on  fire  before  his  readers  are  pre- 
pared to  kindle  along  with  him,  has  the  appearance  of  raving  like  a  madman  among 
persons  who  are  in  their  senses,  or  of  reeling  like  a  drunkard  in  the  midst  of  sober  com- 
pany." 

+  What  person  of  the  least  taste,  can  bear  the  following  passage,  in  a  late  historian  ? 
He  is  giving  an  account  of  the  famous  act  of  parliament  against  irregular  marriages  in 
England: '  The  bill,'  says  he,  'underwent  a  greatnumber  of  alterations  and  amendments, 
which  were  not  effected  without  violent  contest.'  This  is  plain  language,  suited  to  the 
subject ;  and  we  naturally  expect,  that  he  should  go  on  in  the  same  strain,  to  tell  us,  that, 
after  these  contests,  it  was  carriedby  a  great  majority  of  voices,  andobtained  the  royal  as- 
sent. But  how  does  he  express  himself  in  finishing  the  period  ?  '  At  length,  however,  it 
was  floated  through  both  houses,  on  the  tide  of  a  great  majority,  and  steered  into  the 
safe  harbour  of  royal  approbation.'  Nothing  can  be  more  puerile  than  such  language 
^mollet's  History  of  England,  as  quoted  in  Critical  Review  for  Oct.  1761,  p.  251. 

21 


162  METAPHOR.  [lect.  xv. 

wherein  authors,  instead  of'  exalting,  have  contrived  to  degrade, 
their  subjects  by  the  figures  they  employed.  Authors  of  greater 
note  than  those  which  are  there  quoted,  have,  at  times,  fallen  into 
this  error.  Archbishop  Tillotson,  for  instance,  is  sometimes  negli- 
gent in  his  choice  of  metaphors;  as,  when  speaking  of  the  day  of 
judgment,  he  describes  the  world,  as  '  cracking  about  the  sinners' 
ears.'  Shakspeare,  whose  imagination  was  rich  and  bold,  in  a  much 
greater  degree  than  it  was  delicate,  often  fails  here.  The  following, 
for  example,  is  a  gross  transgression;  in  his  Henry  V.  having  men- 
tioned a  dunghill,  he  presently  raises  a  metaphor  from  the  steam 
of  it;  and  on  a  subject  too,  that  naturally  led  to  much  nobler  ideas: 

And  those  that  leave  their  valiant  bones  in  France, 

Dying  like  men,  though  buried  in  your  dunghills, 

They  shall  be  fam'd  ;  for  there  the  sun  shall  greet  them, 

And  draw  their  honours  reeking  up  to  heaven.  Act  IV.  Sc.  8. 

In  the  third  place,  as  metaphors  should  be  drawn  from  objects  of 
some  dignity,  so  particular  care  should  be  taken  that  the  resemblance, 
which  is  the  foundation  of  the  metaphor,  be  clearand  perspicuous,  not 
far  fetched  nor  difficult  to  discover.  The  transgression  of  this  rule 
makes  what  are  called  harsh  or  forced  metaphors,  which  are  always 
displeasing,  because  they  puzzle  the  reader,  and,  instead  of  illustrat- 
ing the  thought,  render  it  perplexed  and  intricate.  With  metaphors  of 
this  kind,  Cowley  abounds.  He,  and  some  of  the  writers  of  his  age,  seem 
to  have  considered  it  as  the  perfection  of  wit,  to  hit  upon  likenesses 
between  objects  which  no  other  person  could  have  discovered;  and, 
at  the  same  time,  to  pursue  those  metaphors  so  far,  that  it  requires 
some  ingenuity  to  follow  them  out  and  comprehend  them.  This 
makes  a  metaphor  resemble  an  aenigma  ;  and  is  the  very  reverse  of 
Cicero's  rule  on  this  head:  'Verecunda  debet  esse  translatio;  ut 
deducta  esse  in  alienum  locum  non  irruisse,  atque  ut  voluntario  non 
vi  venisse  videatur.'*  How  forced  and  obscure,  for  instance,  are  the 
following  verses  of  Cowley,  speaking  of  his  mistress: 

Wo  to  her  stubborn  heart,  it' once  mine  come 
Into  the  self-same  room, 
'Twill  tear  and  blow  up  all  within, 
Like  a  granado,  shot  into  a  magazine. 
Then  shall  love  keep  the  ashes  and  torn  parts 
Of  both  our  broken  hearts; 
Shall  out  of  both  one  new  one  make; 
From  hers  th'  Jilloy,  from  mine  the  metal  take ; 
For  of  her  heart,  he  from  the  flames  will  find 
But  little  left  behind; 
Mine  only  will  remain  entire, 
No  dross  was  there  to  perish  in  the  fire. 

In  ihh  manner  he  addresses  sleep: 

In  vain  thou  drowsy  god,  I  thee  invoke; 
For  thou,  who  dost  from  fumes  arise, 
Thou,  who  man's  soul  dost  overshad-e,        « 


*  "  Bvry  metaphor  should  be  modest,  so  that  it  may  carry  the  appearance  oi"  Saving 
l,ce«,  Vi,  not  of  having  forced  itself  into  the  place  of  that  word  whose  room  it  occu 
pies :  that  it  may  seem  to  have  come  thither  of  its  own  accord,  and  not  by  <-on 
Fir;nns  "  E>e  Oratore,  L.  iii  c.  53 


lbct   xv.]  METAPHOR.  163 

With  a  thick  cloud  by  vapours  made  ; 
Canst  have  no  power  to  shut  his  eyes, 
Whose  flame's  so  pure  that  it  sends  up  no  smoke, 
Yet  how  do  tears  but  from  some  vapours  rise  ! 

Tears  that  be  winter  all  my  year; 
The  fate  of  Egypt  I  sustain, 
And  never  feel  the  dew  of  rain, 

From  clouds  which  in  the  head  appear; 

But  all  my  too  much  moisture  owe 
To  overflowings  of  the  heart  below.* 

Trite  and  common  resemblances  should  indeed  be  avoided  in  qui 
metaphors.  To  be  new,  and  not  vulgar,  is  a  beauty.  But  when 
they  are  fetched  from  some  likeness  too  remote,  and  lying  too  far 
out  of  the  road  of  ordinary  thought,  then,  besides  their  obscurity, 
they  have  also  the  disadvantage  of  appearing  laboured,  and,  as  the 
French  call  it, '  recherche :'  whereas  metaphor,  like  every  other  orna- 
ment, loses  its  whole  grace,  when  it  does  not  seem  natural  and  easy. 

It  is  but  a  bad  and  ungraceful  softening  which  writers  sometimes 
use  for  a  harsh  metaphor,  when  they  palliate  it  with  the  expression, 
as  it  were.  This  is  but  an  awkward  parenthesis  ;  and  metaphors, 
which  need  this  apology  of  an  as  it  were,  would,  generally,  have 
been  better  omitted.  Metaphors,  too,  borrowed  from  any  of  the 
sciences,  especially  such  of  them  as  belonged  to  particular  profes- 
sions, are  almost  always  faulty  by  their  obscurity. 

In  the  fourth  place,  it  must  be  carefully  attended  to,  in  the  con- 
duct of  metaphors,  never  to  jumble  metaphorical  and  plain  lan- 
iruao-e  together;  never  to  construct  a  period  so,  that  part  of  it  must 
be  understood  metaphorically,  part  literally;  which  always  produces 
a  most  disagreeable  confusion.  Instances  which  are  but  too  fre- 
quent, even  in  good  authors,  will  make  this  rule  and  the  reason  of 
it,  be  clearly  understood.  In  Mr.  Pope's  translation  of  the  Odys- 
sey, Penelope,  bewailing  the  abrupt  departure  of  her  son  Tele- 
machus,  is  made  to  speak  thus : 

Long  to  my  joys  my  dearest  lord  is  lost, 

His  country's  buckler,  and  the  Grecian  boast ; 

Now  from  my  fond  embrace  by  tempests  torn, 

Our  other  column  of  the  state  is  borne, 

Nor  took  a  kind  adieu,  nor  sought  consent.!  IV.  l>62. 

Here,  in  one  line,  her  son  is  figured  as  a  column;  and  in  the 
next,  he  returns  to  be  a  person,  to  whom  it  belongs  to  take 
adieu,  and  to  ask  consent.  This  is  inconsistent.  The  poet  should 
either  have  kept  himself  to  the  idea  of  man  in  the  literal  sense ; 
or,  if  he  figured  him  by  a  column,  he  should  have  ascribed  no- 
thing to  him,  but  what  belonged  to  it.    He  was  not  at  liberty  to  as- 

*  See  an  excellent  criticism  on  this  sort  of  metaphysical  poetry,  in  Dr.  Johnson's 
Life  of  Cowley. 

t  In  the  original,  there  is  no  allusion  to  a  column,  and  the  Metaphor  is  reguiarb 
supported. 

*H  <arpiv  uiv  aroa-n  i<r§\ov  *<nroi/ul(rx.  3"8,«oMgft« 

nsCVTCHHC  dgiTXITI  X.tH.<*.?[AiVCV  iv  A*V5tOW< 

ElT^XCV,  TS  KXIOS  \vgu  JiaQ'  'EXXitf*  K*l  (JtlTOt  'Aj^Of* 

"A*X«*  sk  piyo-gtei ,  KiT  o§w»9ev7oc  eutxra..  A,  734. 


164  METAPHOR.  [lect.  *v 

cribe  to  that  column  the  actions  and  properties  of  a  man.  Such  un- 
natural mixtures  render  the  image  indistinct:  leaving  it  to  waver, 
in  our  conception,  between  the  figurative  and  the  literal  sense. 
Horace's  rule,  which  he  applies  to  characters,  should  be  observed  by 
all  writers  who  deal  in  figures : 


-Servetur  ad  imum, 


Qualis  ab  incepto  processerit,  et  sibi  constet. 

Mr.  Pope,  elsewhere,  addressing  himself  to  the  king,  says, 

To  thee  the  world  its  present  homage  pays, 
The  harvest  early,  but  mature  the  praise. 

This,  though  not  so  gross,  is  a  fault,  however,  of  the  same  kind. 
It  is  plain  that,  had  not  the  rhyme  misled  him  to  the  choice  of  an 
improper  phrase,  he  would  have  said, 

The  harvest  early,  but  mature  the  crop  ; 

And  so  would  have  continued  the  figure  which  he  had  begun. 
Whereas,  by  dropping  it  unfinished,  and  by  employing  the  literal 
word  praise,  when  we  were  expecting  something  that  related  to  the 
harvest,  the  figure  is  broken,  and  the  two  members  of  the  sentence 
have  no  proper  correspondence  with  each  other : 
The  harvest  early,  but  mature,  the  praise. 

The  works  of  Ossian  abound  with  beautiful  and  correct  meta- 
phors; such  as  that  on  a  hero:  'In  peace,  thou  art  the  gale  01 
spring ;  in  war,  the  mountain  storm.'  Or  this,  on  a  woman  :  '  She 
was  covered  with  the  light  of  beauty;  but  her  heart  was  the  house 
of  pride.'  They  afford,  however,  one  instance  of  the  fault  we  are 
now  censuring:  'Trothal  went  forth  with  the  stream  of  his  people, 
but  they  met  a  rock:  for  Fingal  stood  unmoved;  broken,  they  roll- 
ed back  from  his  side.  Nor  did  they  roll  in  safety ;  the  spear  of  the 
king  pursusd  their  flight.'  At  the  beginning,  the  metaphor  is  very 
beautiful.  The  stream,  the  unmoved  rock,  the  waves  rolling  back 
broken,  are  expressions  employed  in  the  proper  and  consistenl 
language  of  figure;  but,  in  the  end,  when  we  are  told,  'they 
did  not  roll  in  safety,  because  the  spear  of  the  king  pursued 
their  flight,'  the  literal  meaning  is  improperly  mixed  with  the 
metaphor:  they  are,  at  cne  and  the  same  time,  presented  to  us 
as  waves  that  roll,  and  men  that  may  be  pursued  and  wounded  with 
a  spear.  If  it  be  faulty  to  jumble  together,  in  this  manner,  meta- 
phorical and  plain  language,  it  is  still  more  so, 

In  the  fifth  place,  to  make  two  different  metaphors  meet  on  one 
object.     This  is  what  is  called  mixed  metaphor,  and  is  indeed  onr 
of  the  grossest  abuses  of  this  figure;  such  as  Shakspeare's  expres 
sion, '  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles.'     This  makes  a  most 
unnatural  medley,  and  confounds  the  imagination  entirely.     Quin 
tilian  has  sufficiently  guarded  us  against  it.      '  Id  imprimis  est  cus 
todlendum,  ut  quo  genere  cceperis  translations,  hoc  finias.     Multi 
autem  cum  initium  a  tempestate  sumserunt,  incendio  aut  ruina  fini- 
unt;  qu£e  est  inconsequentia  rerum  foedissima.'*     Observe,  for  in- 

*  "  We  must  be  particularly  attentive  to  end  with  the  same  kind  of  metaphor  w'un 
which  we  have  begun.  Some,  when  they  begin  the  figure  win.  a  tempest,  conclude  it 
with  a  conflagration/  which  forms  a  shameful  inconsistency. 


lect.  xv.]  METAPHOR.  165 

stance,  what  an  inconsistent  group  of  objects  is  brought  together  by 
Shakspeare,  in  the  following  passage  of  the  Tempest;  speaking  of 
persons  recovering  their  judgment,after  the  enchantment  which  he*d 
them  was  dissolved : 

-The  charm  dissolves  apace, 


And  as  the  moriiing  steals  upon  the  night, 
Melting  the  darkness,  so  their  rising  senses 
Begin  to  chase  the  ignorant  fumes  that  mantle 
Their  clearer  reason. 

So  many  ill  sorted  things  are  here  joined,  that  the  mind  can  see 
nothing  clearly ;  the  morning  stealing  upon  the  darkness,  and  at 
the  same  t\m&  melting  it;  the  senses  of  men  chasing  f%mes,  igno- 
rant fumes,  and  fumes  that  mantle.  So  again  in  Romeo  and 
Juliet: 

-As  glorious, 


As  is  the  winged  messenger  from  heaven, 
Unto  the  white  upturned  wondering  eyes 
Of  mortals,  that  fall  back  to  gaze  on  him, 
When  he  bestrides  the  lazy  pacing  clouds, 
And  sails  upon  the  bosom  of  the  air. 

Here  the  angel  is  represented,  as  at  one  moment,  bestriding  the 
clouds,  and  sailing  upon  the  air ;  and  upon  the  bosom  of  the  air 
too ;  which  forms  such  a  confused  picture,  that  it  is  impossible  for 
any  imagination  to  comprehend  it. 

More  correct  writers  than  Shakspeare,  sometimes  fall  into  this 
error  of  mixing  metaphors.  It  is  surprising  how  the  following  inac- 
curacy should  have  escaped  Mr.  Addison,  in  his  Letter  from  Italy; 

I  bridle  in  my  struggling  muse  with  pain, 
That  longs  to  launch  into  a  bolder  strain* 

The  muse,  figured  as  a  horse,  may  be  bridled;  but  when  we  speak 
of  launching,  we  make  it  a  ship ;  and  by  no  force  of  imagination, 
can  it  be  supposed  both  a  horse  and  a  ship  at  one  moment ;  bridled 
to  hinder  it  from  launching.  The  same  author,  in  one  of  his  num- 
bers in  the  Spectator,  says, '  There  is  not  a  single  view  of  human 
nature,  which  is  not  sufficient  to  extinguish  the  seeds  of  pride.'  Ob- 
serve the  incoherence  of  the  things  here  joined  together,  making 
'a  view  extinguish,  and  extinguish  seeds.' 

Horace,  also,  is  incorrect,  in  the  following  passage: 

Urit  enim  fulgore  suo  qui  pra>gravat  artes 
Infra  se  positas. 

Urit  qui  prsegravat.  He  dazzles  who  bears  down  with  his  weight ; 
makes  plainly  an  inconsistent  mixture  of  metaphorical  ideas. 
Js1  either  can  this  other  passage  be  altogether  vindicated : 

Ah  !  quanta  laboras  in  Charybdi, 
Digne  puer  meliore  flamma? 

Where  a  whirlpool  of  water,  Charybdis,  is  said  to  be  a  flame  not 
good  enough  for  this  young  man;  meaning,  that  he  was  unfortu- 
nate in  the  object  of  his  passion.     Flame  is,  indeed,  become  al- 

*  In  my  observation  on  this  passage,  I  find  that  I  had  coincided  with  Dr.  Johnson 
who  passes  a  similar  censure  upon  it,  in  his  life  of  Addison. 


166  METAPHOR.  [lect.  xv 

most  a  literal  word  for  the  passion  of  love :  but  as  it  still  retains,  in 
some  degree,  its  figurative  power,  it  should  never  have  been  used 
as  synonymous  with  water,  and  mixed  with  it  in  the  same  metaphor. 
When  Mr.  Pope  (Eloisa  to  Abelard)  says, 

All  then  is  full,  possessing-  and  possest, 
No  craving  void  left  aking  in  the  breast . 

A  void  may,  metaphorically,  be  said  to  crave :  but  can  a  vo:<i  be  said 
Lo  uke? 

A  good  rule  has  been  given  for  examining  the  propriety  of  meta- 
phors, when  we  doubt  whether  or  not  they  be  of"  the  mixed  kind  ; 
namely,  that  we  should  try  to  form  a  picture  upon  them, and  consi- 
der how  the  parts  would  agree,  and  what  sort  of  figure  the  whole 
would  present,  when  delineated  with  a  pencil.  By  this  means,  we 
should  become  sensible,  whether  inconsistent  circumstances  were 
mixed,  and  a  monstrous  image  thereby  produced,  as  in  all  those 
faulty  instances  I  have  now  been  giving;  or  whether  the  object  was, 
all  along,  presented  in  one  natural  and  consistent  point  of  view. 

As  metaphors  ought  never  to  be  mixed,  so,  in  the  sixth  place,  we 
should  avoid  crowding  them  together  on  the  same  object.  Suppos- 
ing each  of  the  metaphors  to  be  preserved  distinct,  yet,  if  they  be 
heaped  on  one  another,  they  produce  a  confusion  somewhat  of  the 
same  kind  with  the  mixed  metaphor.  We  may  judge  of  this  by  the 
following  passage  from  Horace : 

Motum  ex  Metello  consule  civicum, 
Bellique  causas,  et  vitia  et  modos, 

Ludumque  fortune,  gravesque 

Principum  amicitias,  et  arma 
Nondum  expiatis  uncta  cruoribus  ; 
Periculosa  plenum  opus  aleae 

Tractas,  et  incedis  per  ignes 

Suppositos  cineri  doloso.*  Lib.  ii.  1. 

This  passage,  though  very  poetical,  is,  however,  harsh  and  ob- 
scure; owing  to  no  other  cause  but  this,  that  three  distinct  meta- 
phors are  crowded  together,  to  describe  the  difficulty  of  Pollio's 
writing  a  history  of  the  civil  wars.  First, '  Tractas  arma  uncta  cru- 
oribus nondum  expiatis;'  next,  '  opus  plenum  periculosae  aleae ;'  and 
then ; '  Incedis  per  ignes  suppositos  doloso  cineri.'  The  mind  has 
difficulty  in  passing  readily  through  so  many  different  views,  given  it 
in  quick  succession,  of  the  same  object. 

The  only  other  rule  concerning  metaphors  which  I  shall  add,  ir» 

*  Of  warm  commotions,  wrathful  jars, 

The  growing  seeds  of  civil  wars  ; 

Of  double  fortune's  cruel  games, 

The  spacious  means,  the  private  aims, 
And  fatal  friendships,  of  the  guilty  great, 
Alas !  how  fatal  to  the  Roman  state  ! 

Of  mighty  legions  late  subdu'd, 

And  arms  with  Latian  blood  embru'd  ; 

Yet  unaton'd  (a  labour  vast ! 

Doubtful  the  die,  and  dire  the  cast !) 
Fou  treat  adventurous,  and  incautious  tread 
On  fires  with  faithless  embers  overspread.  Fbakci» 


lect.  xv.]  METAPHOR.  167 

tiie  seventh  place,  is,  that  they  be  not  too  far  pursued.  If  the  re- 
semblance, on  which  the  figure  is  founded,  be  long  dwelt  upon,  and 
carried  into  all  its  minute  circumstances,  we  make  an  allegory  in- 
stead of  a  metaphor;  we  tire  the  reader,  who  soon  becomes  weary 
of  this  play  of  fancy ;  and  we  render  our  discourse  obscure.  This 
is  called  straining  a  metaphor.  Cowley  deals  in  this  to  excess;  and 
to  this  error  is  owing,  in  a  great  measure,  that  intricacy  and  harsh- 
ness, in  his  figurative  language,  v/hich  I  before  remarked.  Lord 
Shaftesbury  is  sometimes  guilty  of  pursuing  his  metaphors  too  far. 
Fond,  to  a  high  degree,  of  every  decoration  of  style,  when  once  he 
had  hit  upon  a  figure  that  pleased  him,  he  was  extremely  loth  to  part 
with  it.  Thus,  in  his  advice  to  an  author,  having  taken  up  soliloquy 
or  meditation,  under  the  metaphor  of  a  proper  method  of  evacua- 
tion for  an  author,  he  pursues  this  metaphor  through  several  pages, 
under  all  the  forms  'of  discharging  crudities,  throwing  off froth  and 
scum,  bodily  operation,  taking  physic,  curing  indigestion,  giving 
vent  to  choler,  bile,  flatulencies,  and  tumours;'  till, at  last,  the  idea 
becomes  nauseous.  Dr.  Young,  also,  often  trespasses  in  the  same 
way.  The  merit,  however,  of  this  writer,  in  figurative  language,  is 
great,  and  deserves  to  be  remarked.  No  writer,  ancient  or  modern, 
had  a  stronger  imagination  than  Dr.  Young,  or  one  more  fertile  in 
figures  of  every  kind.  His  metaphors  are  often  new,  and  often  na- 
tural and  beautiful.  But  his  imagination  was  strong  and  rich, 
rather  than  delicate  and  correct.  Hence,  in  his  Night  Thoughts, 
there  prevails  an  obscurity,  and  a  hardness  in  his  style.  The  meta- 
phors are  frequently  too  bold,  and  frequently  too  far  pursued;  the 
reader  is  dazzled,  rather  than  enlightened  ;  and  kept  constantly 
on  the  stretch  to  keep  pace  with  t«f.  author.  We  may  observe,  for 
instance,  how  the  following  metaphor  is  spun  out: 

Thy  thoughts  are  vagabond  ;  all  outward  bound, 

Midst  sands,and  rocks,  and  storms,  to  cruise  for  pleasure; 

If  gain'd,  dear  bought :  and  better  miss'd  than  gain'd. 

Fancy  and  sense,  from  an  infected  shore, 

Thy  cargo  brings  ;  and  pestilence  the  prize  ; 

Then  such  the  thirst,  insatiable  thirst, 

By  fond  indulgence  but  inflam'd  the  more, 

Fancy  still  cruises,  when  poor  sense  is  tir'd. 

Speaking  of  old  age,  he  says,  it  should 

Walk  thoughtful  on  the  silent,   solemn  shore 
Of  lhat  vast  ocean,  it  must  sail  so  soon  ; 
And  put  good  works  on  board  ■;  and  wait  the  wind 
That  shortly  blows  us  into  worlds  unknown. 

The  two  first  lines  are  uncommonly  beautiful ;  'walk  thoughtful 
on  the  silent,'  &c.  but  when  he  continues  the  metaphor,  'to  putting 
good  worksonboard,  and  waitingthe  wind,'  it  plainly  becomes  strain- 
ed, and  sinks  in  dignity.  Of  all  the  English  authors,  I  know  none 
so  happy  in  his  metaphors  as  Mr.  Addison.  His  imagination  was 
neither  so  rich  nor  so  strong  as  Dr.  Young's ;  but  far  more  chaste 
and  delicate.  Perspicuity,  natural  grace  and  ease,  always  distinguish 
his  figures.  They  are  neither  harsh  nor  strained :  they  never  appeal 
2B 


168  ALLEGORY.  [lect.  xy 

to  have  been  studied  or  sought  after :  but  seem  to  rise  of  their  own 
accord  from  the  subject,  and  constantly  embellish  it. 

I  have  now  treated  fully  of  the  metaphor,  and  the  rules  that  should 
govern  it,  a  part  of  style  so  important,  that  it  required  particular 
illustration.     I  have  only  to  add  a  few  words  concerning  allegory. 

An  allegory  may  be  regarded  as  a  continued  metaphor;  as  it  is 
the  representation  of  some  one  thing  by  another  that  resembles  it, 
and  that  is  made  to  stand  for  it.  Thus,  in  Prior's  Henry  and  Em- 
ma, Emma,  in  the  following  allegorical  manner,  describes  her  con- 
stancy to  Henry : 

Did  I  but  purpose  to  embark  with  thee 
On  the  smooth  surface  of  a  summer's  sea, 
While  gentle  zephyrs  play  with  prosperous  gales, 
And  fortune's  favour  fills  the  swelling  sails  ; 
But  would  forsake  the  ship,  and  make  the  shore, 
When  the  winds  whistle,  and  the  tempests  roar  ? 

We  may  take  also  from  the  scriptures  a  very  fine  example  of  an 
allegory,  in  the  80th  Psalm ;  where  the  people  of  Israel  are  repre- 
sented under  the  image  of  a  vine,  and  the  figure  is  supported  through- 
out with  great  correctness  and  beauty  ;  '  Thou  hast  brought  a  vine 
out  of  Egypt,  thou  hast  cast  out  the  heathen  and  planted  it.  Thou 
preparedst  room  before  it,  and  didst  cause  it  to  take  deep  root,  and 
it  filled  the  land.  The  hills  were  covered  with  the  shadow  of  it ; 
and  the  boughs  thereof  were  like  the  goodly  cedars.  She  sent  out 
her  boughs  into  the  sea,  and  her  branches  into  the  river.  Why  hast 
thou  broken  down  her  hedges,  so  that  all  they  which  pass  by  the  way 
do  pluck  her !  The  boar  out  of  the  wood  doth  waste  it ;  and  the 
wild  beast  of  the  field  doth  devour  it.  Return,  we  beseech  thee, 
0  God  of  Hosts,  look  down  from  heaven,  and  behold,  and  visit  this 
vine !'  Here  there  is  no  circumstance,  (except,  perhaps,  one  phrase 
at  the  beginning, '  thou  hast  cast  out  the  heathen')  that  dees  not 
strictly  agree  to  a  vine,  whilst,  at  the  same  time,  the  whole  quadrates 
happily  with  the  Jewish  state  represented  by  this  figure.  This  is  the 
first  and  principal  requisite  in  the  conduct  of  an  allegory,  that  the 
figurative  snd  the  literal  meaning  be  not  mixed  inconsistently  toge- 
ther. For  instance,  instead  of  describing  the  vine,  as  wasted  by  the 
boar  from  the  wood,  and  devoured  by  the  wild  beast  of  the  field, 
had  the  Psalmist  said,  it  was  afflicted  by  heathens,  or  overcome  by 
enemies,  (which  is  the  real  meaning)  this  would  have  ruined  the  al- 
legory, and  produced  the  same  confusion,  of  which  I  gave  examples 
in  metaphors,  when  the  figurative  and  literal  sense  are  mixed  and 
j  jmbled  together.  Indeed,  the  same  rules  that  were  given  for  meta- 
phors, may  also  be  applied  to  allegories,  on  account  of  the  affinity 
they  bear  to  each  other.  The  only  material  difference  between 
them,  besides  the  one  being  short  and  the  other  being  prolonged,is, 
that  a  metaphor  always  explains  itself  by  the  words  that  are  connect- 
ed with  it  in  their  proper  and  natural  meaning ;  as  when  I  say 
'Achilles  was  a  lion;'  an  'able  minister  is  the  pillar  of  the  state.' 
My  lion  and  my  pillar  are  sufficiently  interpreted  by  the  mention  of 
Achilles  and  the  minister,  which  I  join  to  them:  but  an  allegory  is, 
or  may  be,  allowed  to  stand  more  disconnected  with  the  literal  mean 


LECT-  XV.] 


ALLEGORY. 


mg ;  the  interpretation  not  so  directly  pointed  out,  but  left  to   our 
own  reflection. 

Allegories  were  a  favourite  method  of  delivering  instructions  in 
ancient  times  ;  for  what  we  call  fables  or  parables,  are  no  other  than 
allegories  ;  where,  by  words  and  actions  attributed  to  beasts  or  inani- 
mate objects,  the  dispositions  of  men  are  figured  ;  and  what  we  call 
the  moral,  is  the  unfigured  sense  or  meaning  of  the  allegory.  An 
aenigma,  or  riddle,  is  also  a  species  of  allegory  ;  one  thing  represent- 
ed or  imagined  by  another ;  but  purposely  wrapt  up  under  so  many 
circumstances,  as  to  be  rendered  obscure.  Where  a  riddle  is  not 
intended,  it  is  always  a  fault  in  allegory  to  be  too  dark.  The  mean- 
ing should  be  easily  seen  through  the  figure  employed  to  shadow  it. 
However,  the  proper  mixture  of  light  and  shade  in  such  composi- 
tions, the  exact  adjustment  of  all  the  figurative  circumstances  with 
the  literal  sense,  so  as  neither  to  lay  the  meaning  too  bare  and  open, 
nor  to  cover  and  wrap  it  up  too  much,  has  ever  been  found  an  af- 
fair of  great  nicety ;  and  there  are  few  species  of  composition  in 
which  it  is  more  difficult  to  write  so  as  to  please  and  command  atten- 
tion, than  in  allegories.  In  some  of  the  visions  of  the  Spectator,  we 
have  examples  of  allegories  very  happily  executed. 


QUESTIONS. 


After  the  pre.iminary  observations 
made  relating  to  figurative  language 
in  general,  of  what  does  our  author 
come  to  treat?  With  which  does  he 
bes;in ;  and  on  what  is  it  founded  ? 
Hence,  of  it,  what  is  observed  ?  How 
is  this  remark  illustrated  ?  Of  the  com- 

I>arison  betwixt  the  minister  and  a  pil- 
ar, what  is  remarked  ?  This,  therefore, 
is  what ;  and  how  does  it  affect  the  fan- 
cy ?  Of  the  mind,  when  thus  employed, 
what  is  observed  ?  At  what,  therefore, 
need  we  not  be  surprised;  and  what 
remark  follows  ?  How  is  this  illustrated, 
from  the  words  here  casually  employ- 
ed 1  Why  is  the  metaphor  commonly 
ranked  amoig  tropes,  or  figures  of 
thought  ?  But  provided  the  nature  of  it 
be  well  understood,  what  matters  but 
little ;  and  to  what  has  our  author  con- 
fined it  ?  In  what  sense,  however,  is 
the  word  metaphor  sometimes  used  ? 
From  what  example  is  this  illustrated ; 
and  of  it,  what  is  observed  ?  How  does 
Aristotle,  in  his  Poetics,  use  metaphor  ? 
But  to  tax  him  with  what,  would  be 
unjust ;  and  why  ?  Now,  however, 
what  is   inaccurate?    To   what    does 


metaphor  more  nearly  approach  than 
any  other  figure ;  and  what  is  its  pecu- 
liar effect?  In  order  to  produce  this  ef- 
fect, what  is  required;  and  why? 
What,  therefore,  is  necessary  ?  But  be- 
fore entering  on  these,  what  does  our 
author  propose  to  do;  and  why? 
Whence  is  the  instance  taken  ?  Re- 
peat it.  Of  it,  what  is  observed?  On 
this  passage,  what  two  remarks  are 
made?  By  what  arrangement  would 
the  sentiment  have  been  enfeebled  ? 
Having  mentioned  with  applause  this 
instance  from  Lord  Bolingbroke,  what, 
does  our  author  think  it  incumbent  on 
him  here  to  notice  ?  Of  his  writings, 
what  is  our  author's  opinion?  What 
merit  have  his  political  writings  ?  Of 
his  philosophical  works,  what  is  ob 
served  ?  Of  what  is  this  author  an  un- 
happy instance  ?  Returning  from  tkis 
digression,  to  what  does  our  author  pro- 
ceed ?  What  is  the  first  ?  Of  this  di- 
rection, what  is  observed  ?  How  is  this 
illustrated?  Whatmustwe  remember? 
What  remark  follows  ?  Of  the  exces- 
sive employment  or  them,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  What  air  does  it  give  to  com- 


169  a 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  XV 


position  ;  and  how  does  this  appear  ?  As 
the  affectation  and  parade  of  ornament 
detract  as  much  from  an  author  as  they 
do  from  a  man,  what  follows?  What 
:s  most  unnatural  ?  For  what  do  we  re- 
spectively look,  when  he  reasons,  when 
he  describes,  or  when  he  relates  ?  What 
k  one  of  the  greatest  secrets  in  compo- 
sition ?  What  does  this  give  ?  What  is 
the  effect  of  a  right  disposition  of  the 
shade  ?  What  says  Cicero  on  this  sub- 
ject ?  By  whom  should  this  admonition 
be  attended  to  ?  What  does  the  second 
rule  given,  respect?  How  extensive  is 
the  field  of  figurative  language? 
What  objects  may  be  introduced  into 
figures  with  propriety  ?  But  of  what 
must  we  beware ;  and  even  when  ?  In 
what  subjects  is  it  an  unpardonable 
fault  to  introduce  mean  and  vulgar 
metaphors  ?  What  do  we  find  in  the 
treatise  on  the  Art  of  Sinking,  in  Dean 
Swift's  works  ?  Authors  of  what  cha- 
racter, have  fallen  into  this  error? 
What  instance  is  given  ?  Of  Shaks- 
peare,  what  is  here  observed  ?  What 
example  is  given  from  his  Henry  V.  ? 
In  the  third  place,  about  what  should 
particular  care  be  taken  ?  The  trans- 
gression of  this  rule,  makes  what ;  and 
what  issaid  of  them?  Who  ahounds  with 
metaphors  of  this  kind  ?  What  did  he, 
and  some  of  the  writers  of  his  aire,  seem 
to  consider  the  perfection  of  wit  ?  This 
makes  a  metaphor  resemble  what ; 
and  is  the  reverse  of  what  rule  ?  Re- 
peat the  fallowing  verses  from  Cowley, 
in  which  he  is  speaking  of  his  mis- 
tress ;  and  also  his  address  to  sleep. 
What  should  be  avoided  in  our  meta- 
phors ?  What  is  a  beauty  ?  When 
have  metaphors  the  disadvantage  of 
appearing  laboured ;  and  when  do 
they  lose  their  whole  grace  ?  What 
paliative  do  writers  sometimes  use  for 
a  harsh  n  etnphor ;  and  what  is  said  of 
it  ?  What  metaphors  are  almost  al- 
ways faulty  by  their  obscurity? 

In  the  fourth  place,  what  must  be 
carefully  attended  to  ?  What  noes  a 
violation  of  this  direction  always  pro- 
duce ?  What  will  make  this  rule,  and 
the  reason  of  it,  clearly  understood? 
What  is  the  first  one  given  ?  Here,  in 
one  line,  her  son  is  made  to  appear  like 
what ;  and  what  does  he  return  to  be 
n  the  next  ?  To  what  should  the  poet 
have  kept  himself?  To  do  what  was 
he  not  at  liberty ;  and  why  ?  Of  the 


rule  which  Horace  applies  to  charac- 
ters, what  is  observed  ?  Repeat  it ;  and 
also  Mr.  Pope's  lines  addressed  to  the 
Rang?  Of  the  latter,  what  is  observed? 
What  is  said  of  the  works  of  Ossian  ? 
What  examples  are  given  ?  What  do 
they,  however,  afibrd  ;  and  what  is  it  ? 
Of  the  metaphor  in  this  passage,  what 
is  observed?  If  it  be  faulty  to  jumble 
together  metaphorical  and  plain  lan- 
guage, what,  in  the  fifth  place,  is  still 
more  so  ?  What  is  this  called ;  and 
what  is  said  of  it?  What  instance  is 
given  ?  What  does  this  make  ?  What 
says  Quintilian  on  this  subject?  What 
example  is  given  from  Shakspeare's 
Tempest ;  and  of  it,  what  is  observed  ? 
What  one  is  given  from  Romeo  and 
Juliet  ?  Here,  how  is  the  angel  repre- 
sented? What  inaccuracy  of  the  same 
kind  is  given  from  Mr.  Addison ;  and 
what  is  observed  of  it?  What  does  the 
same  author,  in  one  of  his  numbers  ol 
tne  Spectator,  say  ;  and  of  it,  what  is 
observed  ?  In  what  passages  is  Horace 
also  incorrect;  and  what  is  said  ol 
them?  What  illustration  of  this  rule  is 
given  from  Mr.  Pope?  What  good  rule 
has  heen  given  for  examining  the  pro- 
priei)  of  a  metaphor?  By  this  n, 
of  what  should  we  become  sensible? 
As  metaphors  ought  never  to  be  mixed, 
so,  in  the  sixth  place,  what  should  we 
avoid  ?  How  may  they  produce  a  con- 
fusion of  the  same  kind  with  the  mix- 
ed metaphor  ?  By  what  passage  from 
Horace  may  we  judge  of  this?  To 
v  hat  is  the  harshness  and  obscurity  of 
this  passage  owing  ?  What  are  they  ? 
In  what  does  the  mind  here  find  diffi- 
culty ?  What  is  the  only  other  rule 
which  is  to  be  given  concerning  meta- 
phors ?  How  shall  we  weary  the  fan- 
cy, and  render  our  discourse  obscure  ? 
What  is  this  called?  To  what  is  this 
error  in  Cowley  owing?  Of  Lord 
Shaftesbury,  what  is  observed  ?  What 
illustration  is  given  ?  Of  the  merit  of 
Dr.  Young  in  figurative  language, 
what  is  remarked?  Of  his  metaphors, 
and  of  his  imagination,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  Hence,  in  his  Night  Thou  /iits, 
what  prevails?  What  is  said  of  the 
metaphors?  In  the  following  metaphor, 
what  may  we  observe?  Repeat  it. 
Speaking  of  old  age,  what  does  he  say 
and  what  is  remarked  of  this  passage  ? 
How  does  Mr.  Addison,  in  metaphori- 
cal   language,    compare   with    othei 


LECT.  XV 


QUESTIONS. 


169  * 


English  authors  ?  How  does  his  imagi- 
nation c  Dmpare  with  that  of  Dr.  Young  ? 
What  always  distinguish  his  figures  ? 
Of  what  has  our  author  now  treated 
fully ;  and,  as  a  part  of  style,  what  is 
observed  of  it  ?  How  may  an  allegory 
be  regarded  ;  and  why  ?  What  exam- 
ple is  given  from  Prior?  What  very 
fine  example  of  this  figure  may  we 
take  from  scripture?  Here,  what  is 
not  found  ?  What  is  the  first  and  prin- 
cipal requisite  in  the  conduct  of  an  al- 
legory? How  is  this  illustrated  ?  What 
rules  may  be  applied  to  allegories? 
What  is  the  only  material  difference 
between  them?  What  illustration  is 
given  ?  How  does  it  appear  that  alle- 
gories were  a  favourite  method  of  de- 
livering instructions  in  ancient  times  ? 
What  is  an  enigma,  or  riddle  ?  Where 
a  riddle  is  not  intended,  what  follows  ? 
What  has  ever  been  an  affair  of  great 
nicety ;  and  what  is  the  consequence  ? 
Where  have  we  examples  of  allego- 
ries very  happily  executed  ? 


ANALYSIS. 

Metaphor. 

A.  The  metaphor  and  the  compari- 
son contrasted. 

B.  The    peculiar  properties    of  the 
metaphor. 

c.  Rules  for  the  conduct  of  metaphors. 
a.  They  should  be  suited  to  the 

subject. 
6.  They  should  be  drawn  from  ob- 
jects of  dignity. 

c.  The  resemblance  should  be  clear 
and  perspicuous. 

d.  Metaphorical  and  plain  lan- 
guage should  not  be  jumbled  to- 
gether. 

e.  Two  metaphors  L-hould  not 
meet  on  the  same  ot  |ect. 

f.  They  should  not  be  crowded  to- 
gether on  the  same  object. 

g.  They  should  not  be  too  far  pur- 
sued. 

.  Allegory. 
a.  Its  nature. 
B.  Fables  and  senigmas. 


LECTUME   XVI. 


HYPERBOLE.— PERSONIFICATION.— APOSTROPHE. 

The  next  figure  concerning  which  I  am  to  treat,  is  called  hyper- 
bole, or  exaggeration.  It  consists  in  magnifying  an  object  beyond 
its  natural  bounds.  It  may  be  considered  sometimes  as  a  trope, 
and  sometimes  as  a  figure  of  thought :  and  here,  indeed,  the  distinc- 
tion between  these  two  classes  begins  not  to  be  clear,  nor  is  it  ot 
any  importance  that  we  should  have  recourse  to  metaphysical  sub- 
tilties,  in  order  to  keep  them  distinct.  Whether  we  call  it  trope  or 
figure,  it  is  plain  that  it  is  a  mode  of  speech  which  hath  some  foun- 
dation in  nature.  For  in  all  languages,  even  in  common  conversation, 
hyperbolical  expressions  very  frequently  occur :  as  swift  as  the  wind  ; 
as  white  as  the  snow  ;  and  the  like  :  and  our  common  forms  of  com- 
pliment are  almost  all  of  them  extravagant  hyperboles.  If  any 
thing  be  remarkably  good  or  great  in  its  kind,  we  are  instantly  ready 
to  add  to  it  some  exaggerating  epithet ;  and  to  make  it  the  greatest 
or  best  we  ever  saw.  The  imagination  has  always  a  tendency  to 
gratify  itself,  by  magnifying  its  present  object,  and  carrying  it  to 
excess.  More  or  less  of  this  hyperbolical  turn  will  prevail  in  lan- 
guage, according  to  the  liveliness  of  imagination  among  the  people 
who  speak  it.  Hence,  young  people  deal  always  much  in  hyper- 
boles. Hence,  the  language  of  the  orientals  was  far  more  hyperbo- 
lical than  that  of  the  Europeans,  who  are  of  more  phlegmatic,  or,  it 
you  please,  of  more  correct  imagination.     Hence,  among  all  wri- 


170  HYPERBOLE.  [lect.  xvi 

ters  ia  early  tinies,  and  in  the  rude  periods  of  society,  we  may  ex 
pect  this  figure  to  abound.  Greater  experience,  and  more  cultivat- 
ed society,  abate  the  warmth  of  imagination,  and  chisten  the  mar- 
ner  of  expression. 

The  exaggerated  expressions  to  which  our  ears  are  accustomed 
in  conversation,  scarcely  strike  us  as  hyperboles.  In  an  instant  we 
make  the  proper  abatement,  and  understand  them  according  to 
their  just  value.  But  when  there  is  something  striking  and  unusual 
in  the  form  of  a  hyperbolical  expression,  it  then  rises  into  a  figure  of 
speech  which  draws  our  attention:  and  heve  it  is  necessary  to  ob- 
serve, that,  unless  the  reader's  imagination  be  in  such  a  state  as  dis- 
poses it  to  rise  and  swell  along  with  the  hyperbolical  expression,  he 
is  always  hurt  and  offended  by  it.  For  a  sort  of  disagreeable  force 
is  put  upon  him;  he  is  required  to  strain  and  exert  his  fancy,  when 
he  feels  no  inclination  to  make  any  such  effort.  Hence  the  hyper- 
bole is  a  figure  of  difficult  management;  and  ought  neither  to  be 
frequently  used,  nor  long  dwelt  upon.  On  some  occasions,  it  is  un 
doubtedly  proper ;  being,  as  was  before  observed,  the  natural  style 
of  a  sprightly  and  heated  imagination ;  but  when  hyperboles  are  un- 
seasonable, or  too  frequent,  they  render  a  composition  frigid  and 
unaffecting.  They  are  the  resource  of  an  author  of  feeble  imagina 
tion;  of  one,  describing  objects  which  either  want  rative  dignity  in 
themselves,  or  whose  dignity  he  cannot  show  by  describing  them 
simply,  and  in  their  just  proportions,  and  is  therefore  obliged  to 
rest  upon  tumid  and  exaggerated  expressions. 

Hyperboles  are  of  two  kinds ;  either  such  as  are  employed  in  des- 
cription, or  such  as  are  suggested  by  the  warmth  of  passion.  The 
best  by  far,  are  those  which  are  the  effect  of  passion:  for  if  the 
imagination  has  a  tendency  to  magnify  its  objects  beyond  their  na- 
tural proportion,  passion  possesses  this  tendency  in  a  vastly  strongei 
degree;  and  therefore  not  only  excuses  the  most  daring  figures,  but 
very  often  renders  them  natural  and  just.  All  passions,  without  ex- 
ception, love,  terror,  amazement,  indignation,  anger,  and  even  grief, 
throw  the  mind  into  confusion,  aggravate  their  objects,  and  of  course, 
prompt  a  hyperbolical  style.  Hence  the  following  sentiments  of  Sa- 
tan in  Milton,  as  strongly  as  they  are  described,  contain  nothing 
but  what  is  natural  and  proper;  exhibiting  the  picture  of  a  mind 
agitated  with  rage  and  despair. 

Me,  miserable!  which  way  shall  I  fly 

Infinite  w.ath,  and  infinite  despair? 

Which  way  I  fly  is  hell,  myself  am  hell, 

And  in  the  lowest  depth,  a  lower  deep 

Still  threat'iiing"  to  devour  me,  opens  wide, 

To  which  the  hell  I  suffer  seems  a  heaven.  B  iv.  1.  73 

In  simple  description,  though  hyperboles  are  not  excluded,  vet 
they  must  be  used  with  more  caution,  and  require  more  prepara- 
tion, in  order  to  make  the  mind  relish  them.  Either  the  object 
described  must  be  of  that  kind,  which  of  itself  seizes  the  fancj 
strongly,  and  disposes  it  to  run  beyond  bounds;  something  vast, 
surprising,  and  new:  or  the  writer's  art  must  be  exerted  in  heating 
fancy  gradually,  and  preparing  it  to  think  highly  of  the  object 


lect.  xvi.]  HYPERBOLE.  171 

which  he  intends  to  exaggerate.  When  a  poet  is  describing  an 
earthquake  or  a  storm,  or  when  he  has  brought  us  into  the  midst  of 
a  bactle,  we  can  bear  strong  hyperboles  without  displeasure.  But 
when  he  is  describing  only  a  woman  in  grief,  it  is  impossible  not  to 
be  disgusted  with  such  wild  exaggeration  as  the  following,  in  one  of 
our  dramatic  poets ; 

1  found  her  on  the  floor 

In  all  the  storm  of  grief,  yet  beautiful ; 

Pouring'  forth  tears  at  such  a  lavish  rate, 

That  were  the  world  on  fire,  they  might  have  drown'd 

The  wrath  of  Heaven,  and  quench'd  the  mighty  ruin.  Lee 

Th  is  is  mere  bombast.  The  person  herself  who  was  under  the 
distracting  agitations  of  grief,  might  be  permitted  to  hyperbolize 
strongly;  but  the  spectator  describing  her,  cannot  be  allowed  an 
equal  liberty ;  for  this  plain  reason,  that  the  one  is  supposed  to  ut- 
ter the  sentiments  of  passion,  the  other  speaks  only  the  language  of 
description,  which  is  always,  according  to  the  dictates  of  nature,  on 
a  lower  tone:  a  distinction,  which,  however  obvious,  has  not  been 
attended  to  by  many  writers. 

How  far  a  hyperbole,  supposing  it  properly  introduced,  may  be 
safely  carried  without  overstretching  it;  what  is  the  proper  measure 
and  boundary  of  this  figure,  cannot,  as  far  as  I  know,  be  ascertained 
by  any  precise  rule.  Good  sense  and  just  taste  must  determine  the 
point,  beyond  which,  if  we  pass,  we  become  extravagant.  Lucan 
may  be  pointed  out  as  an  author  apt  to  be  excessive  in  his  hyperboles. 
Among  the  compliments  paid  by  the  Roman  poets  to  their  Empe- 
rors, it  had  become  fashionable  to  ask  them,  what  part  of  the  hea- 
vens they  would  choose  for  their  habitation,  after  they  should  have 
become  gods  ?    Virgil  had  already  carried  this  sufficiently  far  in  his 


address  to  Augustus. 


-Tibi  brachia  contrahit  intrens 


Scorpius,  et  Coeli  justa  plus  parte  relinquit.* 

But  this  did  not  suffice  Lucan.  Resolved  to  outdo  all  his  predeces- 
sors, in  a  like  address  to  Nero,  he  very  gravely  beseeches  him  not 
to  choose  his  place  near  either  of  the  poles,  but  to  be  sure  to  occupy 
just  the  middle  of  the  heavens,  lest,  by  going  either  to  one  side  or 
the  other,  his  weight  should  overset  the  universe: 

Sed  neque  in  Arctoo  sedem  tibi  legeris  orbe, 

Nee  polus  adversi  calidus  qua  mergitur  Austri ; 

jEtheris  immensi  partem  si  presseris  unam 

Sentiet  axis  onus.     Librati  pondera  Cadi 

Orbe  tene  medio.f  Phars.  I.  53. 


*  'The  Scorpion,  ready  to  receive  thy  laws, 

Yields  half  his  region,  and  contracts  his  paws.'  Drftex 

t '  But  oh!  whatever  be  thy  Godhead  great, 

Fix  not  in  regions  too  remote  thy  seat ; 

Nor  deign  thou  near  the  frozen  bear  to  shine, 

Nor  where  the  sultry  southern  stars  decline. 

Press  not  too  much  on  any  part  the  sphere, 

Hard  were  the  task  thy  weight  divine  to  bear ; 

Soon  would  the  axis  feel  th'  unusual  load, 

And,  groaning,  bend  beneath  th'  incumbent  God  ) 

O'er  the  mid  orb  more  equal  shalt  thou  rise, 

And  with  a  juster  balance  fix  the  skies.  Rows 


172  PERSONIFICATION.  [lect.  xvj 

Such  thoughts  as  these,  are  what  the  French  call  oxdrte,  ami  always 
proceed  from  a  false  fire  of  genius.  The  Spanish  and  African 
writers,  as  Tertullian,  Cyprian,  Augustin,  are  remarked  for  being  fond 
of  them.     As  in  that  Epitaph  on  Charles  V.  by  a  Spanish  writer: 

Pro  tumulo  ponas  orbcm,  pro  tegmine  caelum, 
Sidera  pro  facibus,  pro  lacrymis  nnria. 

Sometimes  they  dazzle  and  impose  by  their  boldness;  but  wherever 
reason  and  good  sense  are  so  much  violated,  there  can  be  no  true 
beauty.  Epigrammatic  writers  are  frequently  guilty  in  this  res- 
pect ;  resting  the  whole  merit  of  their  epigrams  on  some  extrava- 
gant hyperbolical  turn ;  such  as  the  following  of  Dr.  Pitcairn's,  upon 
Holland's  being  gained  from  the  ocean ; 

Tellurem  fecere  Dii ;  sua  littora  Belga;; 
Iminenszeque  mulis  opus  utrumque  fuit; 

Dii  vacuo  sparsas  glomerarunt  aethere  terras, 
Nil  ibi  quod  opcri  possit  obesse  fuit. 
At  Belgis  maria  et  coeli,  naturaqne  rertim 

Obstitit;  obstantes  hi  domucre  Deos. 

So  much  for  the  hyperbole.  We  proceed  now  to  those  figures  which 
lie  altogether  in  the  thought;  where  the  words  are  taken  in  their  com- 
mon and  literal  sense. 

Among  these,  the  first  place  is  unquestionably  due  to  personifi- 
cation, or  that  figure  by  which  we  attribute  life  and  action  to  inan- 
imate objects.  The  technical  term  for  this  is  Prosopopoeia;  but  as 
person! lication  is  of  the  same  import,  and  more  allied  to  our  own 
language,  it  will  be  better  to  use  this  word. 

It  is  a  figure,  the  use  of  which  is  veiy  extensive,  and  its  founda- 
tion is  laid  deep  in  human  nature.  At  first  view,  and  when  considered 
abstractly,  it  would  appear  to  be  a  figure  of  the  utmost  boldness, 
and  to  border  on  the  extravagant  and  ridiculous.  For  what  can 
seem  more  remote  from  the  track  of  reasonable  thought,  than  to 
speak  of  stones  and  trees,  and  fields  and  rivers,  as  if  they  were 
living  creatures,  and  to  attribute  to  them  thought  and  sensation, 
affections  and  actions?  One  might  imagine  this  to  be  no  more  thai- 
childish  conceit,  which  no  person  of  taste  could  relish.  In  fact, 
however,  the  case  is  very  different.  No  such  ridiculous  effect  is 
produced  by  personification,  when  properly  employed ;  on  the 
contrary,  it  is  found  to  be  natural  and  agreeable,  nor  is  any  very 
uncommon  degree  of  passion  required,  in  order  to  make  us  relish 
it.  All  poetry,  even  in  its  most  gentle  and  humble  forms,  abounds 
with  it.  From  prose,  it  is  far  from  being  excluded;  nay,  in  com- 
mon conversation,  very  frequent  approaches  are  made  to  it.  When 
we  say,  the  ground  thirsts  for  rain,  or  the  earth  smiles  with  plenty : 
when  we  speak  of  ambition's  being  restless,  or  a  disease  being  deceit- 
ful, such  expressions  show  the  facility  with  which  the  mind  can  ac- 
commodate the  properties  of  living  creatures  to  things  that  are  in- 
animate, or  to  abstract  conceptions  of  its  own  forming. 

Indeed,  it  is  very  remarkable,  that  there  is  a  wonderful  proneness 
in  human  nature  to  animate  all  objects.  Whether  this  arises  from  a 
sort  of  assimilating  principle,  from  a  propension  to  spread  a  resern 


lect.  xvi.  j  -  PEKSuNIFICATION.  '73 

blance  of  ourselves  over  all  other  things,  or  from  whatever  other 
oaase  it  arises,  so  it  is,  that  almost  ev^ry  emotion,  which  in  the 
least  agitates  the  mind,  bestows  upon  its  "bject  a  momentary  idea 
of  life.  Let  a  man  by  an  unwary  step,  sprain  his  ankle,  or  hurt  his 
foot  upon  a  stone,  and  in  the  ruffled,  discomposed  moment,  he  will 
sometimes  feel  himself  disposed  to  break  the  stone  in  pieces,  or 
to  utter  passionate  expressions  against  it,  as  if  it  had  done  him  an 
injury.  If  one  has  been  long  accustomed  to  a  certain  set  of  objects 
which  have  made  a  strong  impression  on  his  imagination  ;  as  to  a 
house  where  he  has  passed  many  agreeable  years;  or  to  fields,  and 
trees,  and  mountains, among  which  he  has  often  walked  with  the 
greatest  delight ;  when  he  is  obliged  to  part  with  them,  especially 
if  he  has  no  prospect  of  ever  seeing  them  again,  he  can  scarce  avoid 
having  somewhat  of  the  same  feeling  as  when  he  is  leaving  old 
friends.  They  seem  endowed  with  life.  They  become  objects  of 
his  affection  ;  and  in  the  moment  of  his  parting,  it  scarcely  seems 
absurd  to  him,  to  give  vent  to  his  feeling  in  words,  and  to  take  a 
formal  adieu. 

So  strong  is  that  impression  of  life,  which  is  made  upon  us  by 
the  more  magnificent  and  striking  objects  of  nature  especially,  that 
I  doubt  not,  in  the  least,  of  this  having  been  one  cause  of  the  multi- 
plication of  divinities  in  the  heathen  world.  The  belief  of  Dryads 
and  Naiads,  the  genius  of  the  wood,  and  the  god  of  the  river,  among 
men  of  lively  imaginations,  in  the  early  ages  of  the  world,  easily  arose 
from  this  turn  of  mind.  When  their  favourite  rural  objects  had 
often  been  animated  in  their  fancy,  it  was  an  easy  transition  to  at- 
tribute to  them  some  real  divinity,  some  unseen  power  or  genius 
which  inhabited  them,  or  in  some  peculiar  manner  belonged  to 
them.  Imagination  was  highly  gratified,  by  thus  gaining  some- 
what to  rest  upon  with  more  stability  ;  and  when  belief  coincided 
so  much  with  imagination,  very  slight  causes  would  be  sufficient 
to  establish  it. 

From  this  deduction,  may  be  easily  seen  how  it  comes  to  pass, 
that  personification  makes  so  great  a  figure  in  all  compositions, 
where  imagination  or  passion  have  any  concern.  On  innumerable 
occasions,  it  is  the  very  language  of  imagination  and  passion,  and 
therefore,  deserves  to  be  attended  to,  and  examined  with  peculiar 
care.  There  are  three  different  degrees  of  this  figure  ;  which  it  is 
necessary  to  remark  and  distinguish,  in  order  to  determine  the  pro- 
priety of  its  use.  The  first  is,  when  some  of  the  properties  or 
qualities  of  living  creatures  are  ascribed  to  inanimate  objncts  ,  the 
second,  when  those  inanimate  objects  are  introduced  as  acting  like 
such  as  have  life  ;  and  the  third,  when  they  are  represented  either 
as  speaking  to  us,  or  as  listening  to  what  we  say  to  them. 

The  first  and  lowest  degree  of  this  figure,  consists  in  ascribing 
to  inanimate  objects  some  of  the  qualities  of  living  creatures.  Where 
this  is  done,  as  is  most  commonly  the  case,  in  a  word  or  two,  and 
byway  of  an  epithet  added  to  the  object,  as,  "a  raging  storm,  a 
deceitful  disease,  a  cruel  disaster,"  &c.  it  raises  the  style  so  little, 
that  the  humblest  discourse  will  admit  it  without  any  force.  This, 
2C 


:  74  PERSONIFICATION.  [iaw.  xvi. 

ndeed,  is  .such  an  obscure  degree  of  personification,  that  one  may 
doubt  whether  it  deserves  the  name,  and  might  not  be  classed  with 
simple  metaphors,  which  escape  in  a  manner  unnoticed.  Happily 
employed,  however,  it  sometimes  adds  beauty  and  sprightliness  to 
an  expression;  as  in  this  line  of  Virgil; 

Aut  conjurato  descendens  Dacus  ab  Istro.  Geor.  II.  474. 

Where  the  personal  epithet,  conjurato,  applied  to  the  river  Istro,  is  in- 
finitely more  poetical  than  if  it  had  been  applied  to  tne  person,  thus : 

Aut  conjuratus  descendens  Dacus  ab  Istro. 

A  very  little  taste  will  make  any  one  feel  the  difference  between 
these  two  lines. 

The  next  degree  of  this  figure  is,  when  we  introduce  inanimate 
objects  acting  like  those  that,  have  life.  Here  we  rise  a  step  high- 
er, and  the  personification  becomes  sensible.  According  to  the 
nature  of  the  action,  which  we  attribute  to  those  inanimate  objects, 
and  the  particularity  with  which  we  describe  it,  such  is  the  strength 
of  the  figure.  When  pursi  ed  to  any  length,  it  belongs  only  to 
studied  harangues,  to  highly  figured  and  eloquent  discourse  ;  when 
slightly  touched,  it  may  be  admitted  into  subjects  cf  less  elevation. 
Cicero,  for  instance,  speaking  of  the  cases  where  killing  another  is 
lawful  in  self-defence,  uses  the  following  words  :  '  Ahquando  nobis 
gladius  ad  occidendum  hominem  ad  ipsis  porrigitur  kgibus.'  (Orat. 
pro  Milone.)  The  expression  is  happy.  The  laws  are  personified, 
as  reaching  forth  their  hand  to  give  us  a  sword  for  putting  one  to 
death.  Such  short  personifications  as  these  may  be  admitted  even 
into  moral  treatises,  or  works  of  cool  reasoning;  and  provided  they 
be  easy  and  not  strained,  and  that  we  be  not  cloyed  with  too  fre- 
quent returns  of  them,  they  have  a  good  effect  on  style,  and  render 
it  both  strong  and  lively. 

The  genius  of  our  language  gives  us  an  advantage  in  the  use  of 
this  figure.  As,  with  us,  no  substantive  nouns  have  gender,  or  are 
masculine  and  feminine,  except  the  proper  names  of  male  and  fe- 
male creatures  ;  by  giving  a  gender  to  any  inanimaie  object,  or  ab- 
stract idea,  that  is,  in  place  of  the  pronoun  it,  using  the  personal 
pronouns,  he  or  she,  we  presently  raise  the  style,  and  begin  personi- 
fication. In  solemn  discourse,  this  may  often  be  doj.e  to  good  pur- 
pose, when  speaking  of  religion,  or  virtue,  or  our  country,  or  any 
such  object  of  dignity.  I  shall  give  a  remarkably  fine  example, 
from  a  sermon  of  Bishop  Sherlock's,  where  we  shall  see  natural  re 
ligion  beautifully  personified,  and  be  able  to  judge  from  it,  of  the 
spirit  and  grace  which  this  figure,  when  well  conduc  led,  bestows  on 
a  discourse.  I  must  take  notice,  at  the  same  time,  that  it  is  an  in- 
stance of  this  figure,  carried  as  far  as  prose,  even  in  its  highest  ele 
vation,  will  admit,  and  therefore  suited  only  to  compositions  where 
the  great  efforts  of  eloquence  are  allowed.  The  aiihoris  compar- 
ing together  our  Saviour  and  Mahomet; '  Go,*  says  i  e, '  to  your  na 
tural  religion :  lay  before  her  Mahomet,  and  his  disciples,  arrayed 
in  armour  and  blood,  riding  in  triumph  over  the  spc.is  of  thousands 
who  fell  by  his  victorious  sword.     Show  her  the  cit  ts  which  he  set 


^ 


lect.  xvi.]  PERSONIFICATION.  .75 

in  flames,  the  countries  which  he  ravaged  and  destroyed,  and  the 
miserable  distress  of  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  earth.  When  she  has 
viewed  him  in  this  scene,  carry  her  into  his  retirement ;  show  her  the 
prophet's  chamber;  his  concubines  and  his  wives;  and  let  her  hear 
him  allege  revelation,  and  a  divine  commission,  to  justify  his  adulte- 
ry and  lust.  When  she  is  tired  with  this  prospect,  then  show  her  the 
blessed  Jesus,  humble  and  meek,  doing  good  to  all  the  sons  of  men. 
Let  her  see  him  in  his  most  retired  privacies :  let  her  follow  him  to 
the  mount,and  hear  his  devotions  and  supplications  to  God.  Carry 
her  to  his  table,  to  view  his  poor  fare,  and  hear  his  heavenly  discourse. 
Let  her  attend  him  to  the  tribunal,  and  consider  the  patience  with 
which  he  endured  the  scoffs  and  reproaches  of  his  enemies.  Lead 
her  to  his  cross  ;  let  her  view  him  in  the  agony  of  death,  and  hear 
his  last  prayer  for  his  persecutors;  Fat  her,  for  give  them,  for they  know 
not  what  they  do  !  When  natural  religion  has  thus  viewed  both,  ask 
her  which  is  the  Prophet  of  God  ?  But  her  answer  we  have  already 
had,  when  she  saw  part  of  this  scene,  through  the  eyes  of  the  cen- 
turion, who  attended  at  the  cross.  By  him  she  spoke,  and  said, 
Truly,  this  man  was  the  Son  of  God.'*  This  is  more  than  elegant ; 
it  is  truly  sublime.  The  whole  passage  is  animated  ;  and  the  figure 
rises  at  the  conclusion,  when  natural  religion,  who,  before,  was  only 
a  spectator,  is  introduced  as  speaking  by  the  centurion's  voice.  It 
has  the  better  effect  too,  that  it  occurs  at  the  conclusion  of  a  dis- 
course, where  we  naturally  look  for  most  warmth  and  dignity.  Did 
Bishop  Sherlock's  sermons,  or,  indeed,  any  English  sermons  what- 
ever, afford  us  many  passages  equal  to  this,  we  should  oftener  have  re- 
course to  them  for  instances  of  the  beauty  of  composition. 

Hitherto  we  have  spoken  of  prose  ;  in  poetry,  personifications  of 
this  kind  are  extremely  frequent,  and  are,  indeed,  the  life  and  soul 
of  it.  We  expect  to  find  every  thing  animated  in  the  descriptions  of 
a  poet  who  has  a  lively  fancy.  Accordingly,  Homer,  the  father  and 
prince  of  poets,  is  remarkable  for  the  use  of  this  figure.  War, 
peace,  darts,  spears,  towns,  rivers,  every  thing,  in  short,  is  alive  in  his 
writings.  The  same  is  the  case  with  Milton  and  Shakspeare.  No 
personification,  in  any  author,  is  more  striking,  or  introduced  on  a 
more  proper  occasion,  than  the  following  of  Milton's,  on  occasion  of 
Eve's  eating  the  forbidden  fruit : 

So  saying,  her  rash  hand,  in  evil  hour 

Forth  reaching  to  the  fruit,  she  pluck'd,  she  ate ; 

Earth  felt  the  wound  ;  and  nature  from  her  seat 

Sighing,  through  all  her  works,  gave  signs  of  wo 

That  all  <vas  lost. —  ix.  7gQ. 

All  the  circumstances  and  ages  of  men,  poverty,  riches,  youth,  old 
age,  all  the  dispositions  and  passions,  melancholy,  love,  grief,  con- 
tentment, are  capable  of  being  personified  in  poetry,  with  great  pro- 
priety. Of  this  we  meet  with  frequent  examples  in  Milton's  Allegro 
and  Penseroso,  Parnell's  Hymn  to  Contentment,  Thomson' s  Seasons, 
and  all  the  good  poets:  nor,  indeed,  is  it  easy  to  set  any  bounds  to 
personifications  of  this  kind,  in  poetry. 

*  Bishop  Sherlock's  Sermons,  Vol  1     Bisc  is 


76  PERSONIFICATION.  <lect.  xvj 

One  of  Ihe  greatest  pleasures  we  receive  from  poetiy,  is,  to  find 
ourselves  always  in  the  midst  of  our  fellows  ;  and  to  see  every  thing 
thinking,  feeling,  and  acting  as  we  ourselves  do.  This  is,  perhaps, 
the  principal  charm  of  this  sort  of  figured  style,  that  it  introduces 
us  into  society  with  all  nature,  and  interests  us,  even  in  inanimate 
objects,  by  forming  a  connexion  between  them  and  us,  through  that 
sensibility  which  it  ascribes  to  them.  This  is  exemplified  in  the  fol- 
lowing beautiful  passage  of  Thomson's  Summer,  wherein  Lhe  life 
which  he  bestows  upon  all  nature,  when  describing  the  effects 
of  the  rising  sun,  renders  the  scenery  uncommonly  gay  and  interest- 
ing: 

But.  yonder  comes  the  powerful  king  of  day 
Rejoicing  in  the  east.     The  lessening  cloud, 
The  kindling  azure,  and  the  mountain's  brow, 
Tipt  with  auhereal  gold,  his  near  approach 

Betoken  glad. 

By  thee  refin'd, 

In  brisker  measures,  the  relucent  stream 
Frisks  o'er  the  mead.     The  precipice  abrupt, 
Projecting  horror  on  the  blacken'd  flood, 
Softens  at  ti.y  return.     The  desert  joys, 
Wildly,  through  all  his  melancholy  bounds, 
Rude  ruins  glitter  :  and  the  briny  deep, 
Seen  from  some  pointed  promontory's  top 
Reflects  from  every  fluctuating  wave, 
A  glance  extensive  as  the  day 

The  same  effect  is  remarkable  in  that  fine  passage  of  Milton  : 

To  the  nuptial  bower 

I  led  her,  blushing  like  the  morn.     All  heaven 
And  happy  constellations,  on  that  hour, 
Shed  their  selectest  influence.     The  earth 
Gave  signs  of  gratulations,  and  each  hill. 
Joyous  the  birds  ;  fresh  gales  and  gentle -airs 
Whispered  it  to  the  woods,  and  from  their  wings 
Flung  rose,  flung  odour  from  the  spicy  shrub, 
Disporting. 

The  third  and  highest  degree  of  this  figure  remains  to  be  mention- 
ed, when  inanimate  objects  are  introduced,  not  only  as  feeling  and 
acting,  but  as  speaking  to  us,  or  hearing  and  listening  when  we  ad- 
dress ourselves  to  them.  This,  though  on  several  occasions  far  from 
being  unnatural,  is,  however,  more  difficult  in  the  execution,  than  the 
other  kinds  of  personification.  For  this  is  plainly  the  boldest  of  all 
rhetorical  figures ;  it  is  the  style  of  strong  passion  only  ;  and,  there- 
fore, never  to  be  attempted,  unless  when  the  mind  is  considerably 
heated  and  agitated.  A  slight  personification  of  some  inanimate 
thing,  acting  as  if  it  had  life,  can  be  relished  by  the  mind,  in  the 
midst  of  cool  description,  and  when  its  ideas  are  going  on  in  the  or- 
dinary train.  But  it  must  be  in  a  state  of  violent  emotion,  and  have 
departed  considerably  from  its  common  track  of  thought,  before  it 
can  so  far  realize  the  personification  of  an  insensible  object,  as  to 
conceive  it  listening  to  what  we  say,  or  making  any  return  to  us.  All 
strong  passions,  however,  have  a  tendency  to  use  this  figure ,  not  on- 
ly love,  anger,  and  indignation,  but  even  those  which  are  seemingly 
more  dispiriting,  s  ich  as,  grief,  remorse,  and  melancholy.     For  all 


lect.  xvi.]  PERSONIFICATION.  177 

passions  struggle  for  vent,  and  if  they  can  find  no  other  object,  will, 
rather  than  be  silent,  pour  themselves  forth  to  woods,  and  rocks,  and 
the  most  insensible  things;  especially  if  these  be  in  any  degree  con- 
nected with  the  causes  and  objects  that  have  thrown  the  mind  into 
this  agitation.  Hence,  in  poetry,  where  the  greatest  liberty  is  allow- 
ed to  the  language  of  passion,  it  is  easy  to  produce  many  beautiful 
examples  of  this  figure.  Milton  affords  us  an  extremely  fine  one, 
in  that  moving  and  tender  address  which  Eve  makes  to  Paradise, 
ii  ist  before  she  is  compelled  to  leave  it. 

Oh!  unexpected  stroke,  worse  than  of  death  ! 

Must  I  thus  leave  thee,  Paradise !  thus  leave 

Thee,  native  soil,  these  happy  walks,  and  shades, 

Fit  haunt  of  gods !  where  I  had  hope  to  spend 

Quiet,  though  sad,  the  respite  of  that  day, 

Which  must  be  mortal  to  us  both.     O  flowers  ! 

That  never  will  in  other  climate  grow, 

My  early  visitation  and  my  last 

At  ev'n,  which  I  bred  up  with  tender  hand, 

From  your  first  op'ning  buds,  and  gave  you  names  ! 

Who  now  shall  rear  you  to  the  sun,  or  rank 

Your  tribes,  and  water  from  th'  ambrosial  fount  ?  Book  II.  1.  268. 

This  is  altogether  the  language  of  nature,  and  of  female  passion. 
It  is  observable,  that  all  plaintive  passions  are  peculiarly  prone  to  the 
use  of  this  figure.  The  complaints  which  Philoctetes,  in  Sopho 
des,  pours  out  to  the  rocks  and  caves  of  Lemnos,  amidst  the  exces? 
of  his  grief  and  despair,  are  remarkably  fine  examples  of  it.*  And 
there  are  frequent  examples,  not  in  poetry  only,  but  in  real  life,  of 
persons  when  just  about  to  suffer  death,  taking  a  passionate  fare- 
well of  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars,  or  other  sensible  objects  around 
them. 

There  are  two  great  rules  for  the  management  of  this  sort  of  per- 
sonification. The  first  rule  is,  never  to  attempt  it,  unless  when 
prompte-d  by  strong  passion,  and  never  to  continue  it  when  the  passion 
begins  to  flag.  It  is  ono  of  those  high  ornaments,  which  can  only 
find  place  in  the  most  warm  and  spirited  parts  of  composition;  and 
there,  too,  must  be  employed  with  moderation. 

The  second  rule  is,  never  to  personify  any  object  in  this  way, 
but  such  as  has  some  dignity  in  itself,  and  can  make  a  proper 
figure  in  this  elevation  to  which  we  raise  it.  The  observance  of 
this  rule  is  required,  even  in  the  lower  degrees  of  personification; 
but  still  more,  when  an  address  is  made  to  the  personified  object 
To  address  the  corpse  of  a  deceased  friend,  is  natural:  but  to  address 
the  clothes  which  he  wore,  introduces  mean  and  degrading  ideas.    So 


Tutv  T2<f  •  *  y  »g  *>,\:v  twJ'  o  r«  Kfya' 
Alt!tx.K*to/uzi  tzr-i^sri  tci;  iia>bi<riv,  &.C 

0  mountains,  rivers,  rocks,  and  savage  herds, 

To  you  I  speak  !   to  you  alone  I  now 
*  Must  breathe  my  sorrows  !  you  are  wont  to  hear 
'  My  sad  compl-'iits,  and  I  will  tell  you  all 
'  That  I  have  suffered  from  Achilles'  son  !'  Fr«NKU» 

23 


178  PERSONIFICATION  [leci.  xvi 

also,  addressing  the  several  parts  of  one's  body,  as  if  thpy  were 
animated,  is  not  congruous  to  the  dignity  of  passion.  For  this  rea- 
son, I  must  condemn  the  following  passage,  in  a  very  beautiful  poem 
of  Mr.  Pope's,  Eloisa  to  Abelard. 

Dear  fatal  name  !  rest  ever  unreveal'd, 
Nor  pass  these  lips  in  holy  silence  seaTd. 
Hide  it,  my  heart,  within  that  close  disguise, 
Where,  mix'd  with  God's,  his  lov'd  idea  lies  ; 
Oh!  write  it  not,  my  hand  ! — his  name  appears 
Already  written  : — Blot  it  out,  my  tears! 

Here  are  several  different  objects  and  parts  of  the  body  personi- 
fied; and  each  of  them  is  addressed  or  spoken  to;  let  us  con- 
sider with  what  propriety.  The  first  is  the  name  of  Abelard :  '  Dear 
fatal  name !  rest  ever,'  &c.  To  this  no  reasonable  objection  can  be 
made ;  for,  as  the  name  of  a  person  often  stands  for  the  person 
himself,  and  suggests  the  same  ideas,  it  can  bear  this  personification 
with  sufficient  dignity.  Next,  Eloisa  speaks  to  herself,  and  personi- 
fies her  heart  for  this  purpose:  'Hide  it,  my  heart,  within  that 
close,'  &c.  As  the  heart  is  a  dignified  part  of  the  human  frame,  and 
is  often  put  for  the  mind,  or  affections,  this  also  may  pass  without 
blame.  But,  when  from  her  heart  she  passes  to  her  hand, and  tells  her 
hand  not  to  write  his  name,  this  is  forced  and  unnatural ;  a  personi- 
fied hand  is  low,  and  not  in  the  style  of  true  passion ;  and  the  figure 
becomes  still  worse,  when,  in  the  last  place,  she  exhorts  her  tears 
to  blot  out  what  her  hand  had  written;  'Oh!  write  it  not,'  &c. 
There  is,  in  these  two  lines,  an  air  of  epigrammatic  conceit,  which 
native  passion  never  suggests;  and  which  is  altogether  unsuitable  to 
the  tenderness  which  breathes  through  the  rest  of  that  excellent 
poem. 

In  prose  compositions,  this  figure  requires  to  be  used  with  still 
greater  moderation  and  delicacy.  The  same  liberty  is  not  allowed 
to  the  imagination  there,  as  in  poetry.  The  same  assistances  cannot 
be  obtained  for  raising  passion  to  its  proper  height  by  the  force  of 
numbers,  and  the  glow  of  style.  However,  addresses  to  inanimate 
objects  are  not  excluded  from  prose;  but  have  their  place  only  in 
the  higher  species  of  oratory.  A  public  speaker  may,  on  some  oc- 
casions, very  properly  address  religion  or  virtue;  or  his  native 
country,  or  some  city  or  province,  which  has  suffered  perhaps  great 
calamities,  or  been  the  scene  of  some  memorable  action.  But  we 
must  remember,  that  as  such  addresses  are  among  the  highest  efforts 
of  eloquence,  they  should  never  be  attempted,  unless  by  persons  of 
more  than  ordinary  genius.  For  if  the  orator  fails  in  his  design  of 
moving  our  passions  by  them,  he  is  sure  of  being  laughed  at.  Of 
all  frigid  things,  the  most  frigid  are  the  awkward  and  unseasonable 
attempts  sometimes  made  towards  such  kinds  of  personification,  es- 
pecially if  they  be  long  continued.  We  see  the  writer  or  speaker 
toiling  and  labouring  to  express  the  language  of  some  passion, 
which  he  neither  feels  himself,  nor  can  make  us  feel.  We  remaiD 
not  only  cold,  but  frozen;  and  are  at  full  leisure  to  criticise  on  the 
ridiculous  figure  which  the  personified  object  makes,  when  we  ought 
to  have  been  transported  with  a  glow  of  enthusiasm.     Some  of  the 


LEcr  xvi.]  APOSTROPHE.  179 

French  writers,  particularly  Bossuet  and  Flechier,  in  their  sermons 
and  funeral  orations,  have  attempted  and  executed  this  figure,  not 
without  warmth  and  dignity.  Their  works  are  exceedingly  worthy  of 
being  consulted,  for  instances  of  this,  and  of  several  other  ornaments  of 
style.  Indeed, the  vivacity  and  ardour  of  the  French  genius  is  more 
suited  to  this  bold  species  of  oratory,  than  the  more  correct,  but 
less  animated  genius  of  the  British,  who,  in  their  prose  works, 
very  rarely  attempt  any  of  the  high  figures  of  eloquence.*  So 
much  for  personification  or  prosopopoeia,  in  all  its  different  forms. 
Apostrophe  is  a  figure  so  much  of  the  same  kind,  that  it  will  not 
require  many  words.  It  is  an  address  to  a  real  person,  u.ut  one  who 
is  either  absent  or  dead,  as  if  he  were  present,  and  listening  to  us. 
It  is  so  much  allied  to  an  address  to  inanimate  objects  personified, 
that  both  these  figures  are  sometimes  called  apostrophes.  However, 
the  proper  apostrophe  is  in  boldness  one  degree  lower  than  the  ad- 
dress to  personified  objects  ;  for  it  certainly  requires  a  less  effort  ol 
imagination  to  suppose  persons  present  who  are  dead  or  absent,  than 
to  animate  insensible  beings,  and  direct  our  discourse  to  them.  Both 
figures  are  subject  to  the  same  rule  of  being  prompted  by  passion,  in 
order  to  render  them  natural ;  for  both  are  the  language  of  passion  01 
strong  emotions  only.  Among  the  poets,  apostrophe  is  frequent  as 
in  Virgil: 

-Pereunt  Hypenisque  Dymasque 


Confixi  a  sociis  ;  nee  te,  tua  plurima,  Pantheu 


*  In  the  '  Oraisons  Funebres  de  M.  Bossuet,'  which  I  consider  as  one  of  the  master 
pieces  of  modern  eloquence,  apostrophes  and  addresses  to  personified  objects  frequent 
ly  occur,  and  are  supported  with  much  spirit.  Thus,  for  instance,  in  the  funeral  ora- 
tion of  Mary  of  Austria,  Queen  of  France,  the  author  addresses  Algiers,  in  the  prospect 
of  the  advantage  which  the  arms  of  Louis  XIV.  were  to  gain  over  it:  'Avant  lui  ia 
France,  presque  sans  vaisseaux,  tenoit  en  vain  aux  deux  mers.  Maintenant,  on  les 
voit  couvertes,  depuis  le  levant  jusqu'au  couchant,  de  nos  flottes  victorieuses  ;  et  la 
hardiesse  Francoise  porte  partout  la  terreur  avec  le  nom  de  Louis.  Tu  c6deras,  tu  tom- 
bcras  sous  le  vainqueur,  Alger!  riche  des  depouilles  de  la  Chretient6.  Tu  disois  en 
ton  cosur  avare,  je  tiens  la  mer  sous  ma  loi,  et  les  nations  sont  ma  proie.  La  16gerete 
de  tes  vaisseaux  te  donnoit  de  la  confiance.  Mais  tu  te  verras  attaque  dans  tes  murailles, 
comme  un  cisseau  ravissant,  qu'on  iroit  chercher  parmi  scs  rochcrs,  ct  dans  son  nid, 
ou  il  partage  son  butin  a  ses  petits.  Tu  rends  deja  tes  esclaves.  Louis  abrise  les  fers 
dont  tu  accablois  ses  sujets,  &c.'  In  another  passage  of  the  same  oration,  he  thus  apos- 
trophizes the  Isle  of  Pheasants,  which  had  been  rendered  famous  by  being  the  scene  of 
those  conferences,  in  which  the  treaty  of  the  Pyrenees  between  France  and  Spain,  and 
the  marriage  of  this  princess  with  the  king  of  France,  were  concluded.  'Isle  paci- 
fique  ou  se  doivent  terminer  les  differends  de  deux  grands  empires  a  qui  tu  sers  de  limites 
isle  eternellement  memorable  paries  conferences  de  deux  grands  ministres.  Auguste 
journee  ou  deux  ficres  nations,  long  tems  ennemis,  et  alors  reconcilies  par  Marie  Theresa, 
s'avancent  sur  leurs  confins,  leurs  rois  a  leur  tete,  non  plus  pour  se  combattre,  mais 
pour  s'embrasser.  Fetes  sacrees,  marriage  fortune,  voile  nuptial,  benediction,  sa- 
crifice, puis  je  meler  aujourdhui  vos  ceremonies,  et  vos  pompes  avec  ces  pompes 
fun&bres,  et  le  coinble  des  grandeurs  avec  leurs  ruines !'  In  the  funeral  oration  of 
Henrietta,  Queen  of  England,  (which  is  perhaps  the  noblest  of  all  his  compositions) 
hfter  recounting  all  she  had  done  to  support  her  unfortunate  husband,  he  concludes 
with  this  beautiful  apostrophe:  <0  mere!  O  femme  !  O  reine  admirable,  et  digne 
d'une  meilleure  fortune,  si  les  fortunes  de  la  terre  etoient  quelque  chose !  Enfin 
il  faut  c6der  a  votre  sort.  Vous  avez  assez  soutenu  l'etat  qui  est  attaque,  par  une  force 
iavincibie  e4  divine.  U  ne  reste  plus  dtsormais,  si  non  que  vous  teniez  ferae  parmi 
ses  mines, 


180  APOSTROPHE.  [lect.  xn 

Labentera  pietas,  nee  Apollinis  insula  texit !" 

fiie  poems  of  Ossian  are  full  of  the  most  beautiful  instances  of 
this  figure:  'Weep  on  the  rocks  of  roaring  winds,  0  maid  of  Inis- 
toi  e !  Bend  thy  fair  head  over  the  waves,  thou  fairer  than  the  ghosts 
of  the  hills,  when  ;\  moves  in  a  sunbeam  at  noon  over  the  silence  of 
Morven  !  He  is  fallen  !  Thy  youth  is  low  ;  pale  beneath  the  sword  of 
CuchullinPt  Quintilian  affords  us  a  very  fine  example  in  prose; 
when  in  the  beginning  of  hh  sixth  book,  deploring  the  untimely 
death  of  his  son,  which  had  happened  during  the  course  of  the 
work,  he  makes  a  very  moving  and  tender  apostrophe  to  him.  'Nam 
quo  ille  animo,  qua  medicorum  admiratione,  mensium  octo  valetu- 
dinem  tulit?  ut  me  in  supremis  consolatus  est?  quam  etiam  jam 
deficiens,  jamque  non  noster,  ipsum  ilium  alienatse  mentis  errorem 
circa  solas  literas  habuit?  Tuosne  ergo,  0  mese  spes  manes  !  laben- 
tes  oculos,  tuum  fugientem  spiritum  vidi?  Tuum  corpus  frigidum, 
exangue  complexus,  animam  recipere,  auramque  communem  hau- 
rire  amplius  potui  ?  Tcne,  consulari  nuper  adoptione  ad  omnium 
spes  honorum  patris  admotum,  te,  avunculo  praetori  generum  desti- 
naUim;  te,  omnium  spe  Attiese  eloquential  candidatum,  parens  su- 
perstes  tantum  ad  poenas  amisi  !'$  In  this  passage  Quintilian  shows 
the  true  genius  of  an  orator,  as  much  as  he  does  elsewhere  that  of 
the  critic. 

For  such  bold  figures  of  discourse  as  strong  personifications,  ad- 
dresses to  personified  objects,  and  apostrophes,  the  glowing  imagina- 
tion of  the  ancient  oriental  nations  was  particularly  fitted.  Hence, 
in  the  sacred  scriptures.,  we  find  some  very  remarkable  instances:  '0 
thou  sword  of  the  Lord!  how  long  will  it  be  ere  thou  be  quiet?  put 
thyself  up  into  thy  scabbard,  rest  and  be  still !  How  can  it  be  quiet, 
seeing  the  Lord  hath  given  it  a  charge  against  Ashkelcn,  and  against 
the  sea-shore?  there  he  hath  appointed  it.'j|  There  is  one  passage 
in  particular,  which  I  must  not  omit  to  mention,  because  it  contains 
a  greater  assemblage  of  sublime  ideas,  of  bold  and  daring  f.gures, 
than  is  perhaps  any  where  to  be  met  with.  It  is  in  th.3  fourteenth 
chapter  of  Isaiah,  where  the  prophet  thus  describes  the  fall  of  the 
Assyrian  empire :  'Thou  shalt  take  up  this  proverb  against  the  king 
of  Babylon,  and  say,  how  hath  the  oppressor  ceased !  the  golden 

*  Nor  Pantkeus  !  thee,  thy  mitre,  nor  the  bands 

Of  awful  Phoebus,  sav'd  from  impious  hands.  Dkyden. 

t  Fingnl,  B  I. 

J  «  With  what  spirit,  and  how  much  to  the  admiration  of  the  physicians,  did  lie  bear 
throughout  eight  months  his  lingering  distress?  With  what  tender  attention  did  he 
study  even  in  the  last  extremity,  to  comfort  me  ?  And  when  no  longer  himself,  how 
affecting  «  as  it  to  behold  the  disordered  efforts  of  his  wandering  mind,  wholly  employ 
ed  on  subjects  of  literature?  Ah  !  my  frustrated  and  fallen  hopes!  Have  1  thei  •-held 
your  closing  eyes,  and  heard  the  last  groan  issue  from  youi  lips  ?  After  >,Hving 
embraced  your  cold  and  breathless  body,  how  was  it  in  my  power  to  draw  the  vital 
air,  or  continue  to  drag  a  miserable  life  ?  When  I  had  just  beheld  you  raised  by  con- 
sular adoption  to  the  prospect  of  all  your  father's  honours,  destined  to  be  son-in-law  to 
vonr  uncle  the  Prsetor,  pointed  out  by  general  expectation  as  the  successful  candidate 
for  the  prize  of  Attic  eloquence,  in  this  moment  of  your  opening  honours  must  1 
lose  you  for  ever,  and  remain  an  unhappy  parent,  surviving  only  to  suffer  wo  !' 

JJ  J(?r  xlvii.  6,  7. 


LECT.  XVI. 


APOSTROPHE. 


1S1 


city  ceased  !  The  Lord  hath  broken  the  staff  of  the  wicked,  and  the 
sceptre  of  the  rulers.  He  who  smote  the  people  in  wrath  with  a 
continual  stroke  ;  he  that  ruled  the  nations  in  anger,  is  persecuted, 
and  none  hindereth.  The  whole  earth  is  at  rest,  and  is  quiet :  thej 
break  forth  into  singing.  Yea,  the  fir-trees  rejoice  at  thee,  and  the 
cedars  of  Lebanon,  saying,  since  thou  art  laid  down,  no  feller  is  come 
up  against  us.  Hell  from  beneath  is  moved  for  thee,  to  meet  thee 
at  thy  coming :  it  stirreth  up  the  dead  for  thee,  even  all  the  chief 
ones  of  the  earth  :  it  hath  raised  up  from  their  thrones  all  the  kings 
of  the  nations.  All  they  shall  speak,  and  say  unto  thee,  art  thou 
also  become  weak  as  we  ?  art  thou  become  like  unto  us  1  Thy  pomp 
is  brought  down  to  the  grave,  and  the  noise  of  thy  viols ;  the  worm 
is  spread  under  thee,  and  the  worms  cover  thee.  How  art  thou 
fallen  from  Heaven,  O  Lucifer,  son  of  the  morning  !  how  art  thou 
cut  down  to  the  ground,  which  didst  weaken  the  nations  !  For  thou 
hast  said  in  thine  heart,  I  will  ascend  into  Heaven,  I  will  exalt  my 
throne  above  the  stars  of  God  :  I  will  sit  also  upon  the  mount  of 
the  congregation,  in  the  sides  of  the  north.  I  will  ascend  above  the 
heights  of  the  clouds,  I  will  be  like  the  Most  High.  Yet  thou  shalt 
be  brought  down  to  hell,  to  the  sides  of  the  pit.  They  that  see  thee 
shall  narrowly  look  upon  thee,  and  consider  thee,  saying,  is  this  the 
man  that  made  the  earth  to  tremble,  that  did  shake  kingdoms  1 
That  made  the  world  as  a  wilderness,  and  destroyed  the  cities 
thereof;  that  opened  not  the  house  of  his  prisoners?  All  the  kings 
of  the  nations,  even  all  of  them  lie  in  glory,  every  one  in  his  own 
house.  But  thou  art  cast  out  of  thy  grave,  like  an  abominable 
branch  :  and  as  the  raiment  of  those  that  are  slain,  thrust  through 
with  a  sword,  that  go  down  to  the  stones  of  the  pit,  as  a  carcass 
trodden  under  feet.'  This  whole  passage  is  full  of  sublimity.  Every 
object  is  animated  ;  a  variety  of  personages  are  introduced ;  we  hear 
the  Jews,  the  fir-trees,  and  cedars  of  Lebanon,  the  ghosts  of  depart- 
ed kings,  the  king  of  Babylon  himself,  and  those  who  look  upon  his 
body,  all  speaking  in  their  order  and  acting  their  different  parts, 
without  confusion. 


aUESTIOXS. 


What  is  the  next  figure  of  which 
orar  author  is  to  treat  called;  and  in 
what  does  it  consist?  How  nriy  it  be 
considered  ;  and  what  remark  follows? 
Whether  we  call  it  trope  or  figure, 
what  is  plain ;  and  why  ?  How  is  this 
illustrated?  In  what  manner  has  the 
imacinalion  a  tendency  to  gratify  it- 
self? According  to  what  will  more  or 
less  of  this  hyperbolical  turn  prevail  ? 
Hence,  what  consequences  follow  ? 
What  is  the  effect  of  greater  experi- 
2D 


ence,  and  more  cultivated  society? 
What  scarcely  strike  us  as  hyperboles 
and  why?  When  does  it  rise  into 
figure  of  speech  which  draws  our  at- 
tention ?  What  is  it  necessai^  here  to 
observe ;  and  why?  Hence,  what  fol- 
lows? Why  is  it  on  some  occasions 
proper?  When  they  are  unseasonable, 
Avhat  is  their  effect  ?  Of  what  authors 
are  they  the  resource?  Of  what  two 
kinds  are  hyperboles?  Which  are  the 
best;  and  why?  Of  all  the  passions, 


181   u 


QUESTIONS. 


LLECT.   XVI 


what  is  observed?  Hence,  of  the  fol- 
lowing sentiments  of  Satan,  in  Milton, 
what  is  observed  ?  Repeat  the  passage. 
In  simple  description  how  must  hyper- 
boles be  used  ;  what  do  they  require ; 
and  why  ?  When  can  we  bear  strong 
hyperboles  without  displeasure?  But, 
when  is  it  impossible  not  to  be  disgust- 
ed 1  What  example  is  given ;  and  of 
it  what  is  observed  ?  Who  might,  and 
who  might  not  be  permitted  to  hyper- 
bolize thus  strongly;  and  for  what 
reason?  What  cannot  be  ascertained 
by  any  precise  rule  ?  What  must  de- 
termine the  point ;  and  what  follows  ? 
Of  Lucan,  what  is  observed  ?  Among 
the  compliments  paid  by  the  Roman 
poets  to  their  Emperors,  what  had  be- 
come common?  What  illustration  of 
this  remark  have  Ave  from  Virgil  ?  Re- 
solved to  outdo  all  his  predecessors, 
what  does  Lucan  very  gravely  request 
of  Nero  ?  Repeat  the  passage.  What 
do  the  French  call  such  thoughts ;  and 
from  what  do  they  always  proceed? 
What  writers  are  remarkable  for  being 
fond  of  them ;  and  what  is  sometimes 
their  effect  ?  On  what  do  epigrammatic 
writers  frequently  rest  the  whole  merit 
of  their  epigrams?  What  example  is 
given?  To  \vhat  figures  do  we  now 
proceed  ?  Among  these,  to  what  is  the 
first  place  due  ?  Why  is  personification 
used  instead  of  prosopopoeia  ?  Of  the 
use  of  this  figure,  what  is  observed; 
and  where  is  its  foundation  laid?  At 
first  view,  and  when  considered  ab- 
stractly, how  would  it  appear;  and 
why  ?  What  might  one  imagine  this  to 
be ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  what  is  re- 
marked of  it  ?  What  abounds  with  it ; 
and  from  what  is  it  far  from  being  ex- 
cluded? What  instances  of  its  use  in  com- 
mon conversation  are  mentioned,  and 
what  do  such  expressions  show  ?  Indeed, 
what  is  very  remarkable?  What  remark 
follows?  How  is  this  remark  illustrated  ? 
What  further  illustrations  are  given? 
With  what  do  they  seem  endowed  ;  of 
what  do  they  become  objects ;  and  in 
the  moment  of  parting,  what  scarcely 
seems  absurd  ?  Of  what  is  it  probable, 
that  this  strong  impression  of  life  was 
one  cause  ?  In  the  early  ages  of  the 
world,  what  easily  arose  from  this  turn 
of  mind  ?  How  is  this .  illustrated  ?  By 
thus  paining  what,  was  the  imagina- 
tion hiyhly gratified;  and  what  follow- 
ed ?  From  this  deduction,  what  may 


easily  be  seen  ?  On  innumerable  occa- 
sions, what  is  it ;  and  therefore,  what 
does  it  deserve?  How  many  degrees 
of  this  figure  are  there;  and  why  is  it 
necessary  to  distinguish  them  ?  Repeat 
them.  Where  the  lowest  degree  of  this 
figure  is  used,  in  what  is  it  most  com- 
monly done ;  what  examples  are  given ; 
and  what  is  its  effect  ?  Of  this  degree 
of  personification,  what  is  observed  ? 
When  happily,  however,  what  is  its 
effect  ?  What  example  is  given ;  and 
what  is  said  of  it?  What  is  the  next 
degree  of  this  figure ;  and  what  is  said 
of  it?  According  to  what,  is  the  strength 
of  this  figure  ?  When  pursued  to  any 
length,  to  what  only  does  it  belong ; 
and  when  slightly  touched,  into  what 
may  it  be  admitted  ?  To  illustrate  this 
remark,  what  instance  is  given  from 
Cicero?  Where  may  such  short  per- 
sonifications be  admitted ;  and  under 
what  circumstances  do  they  have  a 
good  effect  upon  style  ? 

Why  does  the  genius  of  our  language 
give  us  an  advantage  in  the  use  of  this 
figure?  In  what  discourse  may  this 
often  be  done  to  good  purpose?  To  illus- 
trate this  remark,  what  example  is 
given,  and  what  do  we  see  in  it  ?  At 
the  same  time,  what  must  be  noticed  ? 
Whom  is  the  author  comparing  toge- 
ther ?  Repeat  the  passage.  Of  it,  what 
is  observed  ?  What  circumstance,  also, 
contributes  to  its  effect  ?  Did  any  Eng 
fish  sermons  affoid  us  many  passage* 
equal  to  this,  what  would  be  the  conse- 
quence ?  Where  are  personifications  of 
this  kind  extremely  frequent ;  and 
what  are  they  ?  In  the  descriptions  of 
a  poet  who  has  a  lively  fancy,  what  do 
we  expect;  accordingly,  what  follows? 
What  are  alive  in  his  writings;  and 
with  whom  is  the  case  the  same? 
What  is  said  of  Milton's  personification 
of  Eve's  eating  the  forbidden  fniit  ? 
Repeat  the  passage.  "What  are  capa 
ble  of  being  personified  in  poetry,  with 
great  propriety  ?  Of  this,  where  do  we 
meet  with  frequent  examples?  What 
is  one  of  the  greatest  pleasures  we 
receive  from  poetry  ?  What  is  perhape 
the  principal  charm  of  this  kind  of  figu- 
rative style  ?  Where  is  this  exempli- 
fied ?  Repeat  the  passage.  In  wha 
passajre  of  Milton,  is  the  same  effect 
remarkable  ?  What  is  the  third  an^ 
hicrhest  decree  of  this  figure  ?  Of  this 
what  is  observed ;  and  why  ?   Wher 


LECT.  XVII.] 


QUESTIONS. 


18I  A 


can  a  slight  personification  of  some  in- 
animate thing,  be  relished?  But,  Avhat 
follows?  "What,  however,  have  a  ten- 
dency to  use  this  figure;  what  exam- 
ples are  given;  and  why?  Hence, 
what  follows?  In  what  does  Milton 
afford  an  extremely  fine  example  of 
this  ?  Repeat  the  passage ;  and  of  it 
what  is  observed?  What  is  here  ob- 
servable? What  affords  a  very  fine  ex- 
ample? Repeat  it.  Of  what  are  there 
frequent  examples  in  real  life  ?  Of  the 
two  great  rules  for  the  management  of 
this  figure,  what  is  the  first;  and  why? 
What  is  the  second  ?  Where  is  the  ob- 
servation of  this  rule  required  ?  How 
is  this  illustrated  ?  For  this  reason, 
what  passage  does  our  author  con- 
demn ?  What  remarks  are  made  upon 
it  ?  How  does  this  figure  require  to  be 
used  in  prose  composition?  What  there 
is  not  allowed;  and  what  cannot  be 
ascertained?  However,  what  follows; 
and  how  is  this  illustrated?  But  what 
must  we  remember;  and  why?  Of  all 
frigid  things,  what  are  the  most  frigid  ? 
In  what  situation  do  we  see  the  writer  or 
speaker;  and  in  what  situation  do  we 
find  ourselves  ?  How  have  some  of  the 
French  writers  executed  this  figure? 
For  what  are  their  works  exceedingly 
worthy  of  being  consulted ;  and  for 
what  reason  ?  Of  the  apostrophe,  what 
is  observed  ?  What  is  it?  To  what  is  it 
much  allied?  However,  what  is  the 
proper  apostrophe;  and  why?  To  what 
rule  are  both  figures  subject?  What 
example  is  given?  Among  the  poets, 


what  are  frequent ;  and  what  example 
is  given  ?  Of  the  poems  of  Ossian,  what 
is  observed ;  and  what  example  is  given? 
Under  what  circumstances  does  Quin- 
tilian  make  a  very  moving  apostrophe? 
Repeat  the  passage;  and  in  it,  what 
does  he  show?  For  such  bold  figures 
of  discourse  as  strong  personification, 
what  was  particularly  fitted  ?  Hence, 
where  do  we  find  some  very  remarka- 
ble instances?  Repeat  the  following 
passage?  Why  must  our  author  not 
omit  to  mention  the  passage  in  the  four- 
teenth chapter  of  Isaiah?  Repeat  it. 
Of  what  is  this  whole  passage  full ; 
and  what  further  remarks  are  made 
upon  it? 


ANALYSIS. 

1.  Hyperbole. 

A.  Hyperboles  employed  in  descrip- 

tion. 

B.  Hyperboles    suggested    by   the 

warmth  of  passion. 
Figures  of  thought. 

2.  Personification. 

A.  Living  properties  ascribed  to  'n- 
animate  objects. 

b.  Inammate  objects  acting  like  those 

that  have  life. 

c.  Inanimate  objects  mtroduced   as 

speaking  to  us. 

a.  To   be  employed   only   when 

prompted  by  strong  passion. 

b.  Objects  of  dignity  only  should 

be  personified. 

3.  Apostrophe. 


LECTURE  XVII. 


COMPARISON,  ANTITHESIS,  INTERROGATION, 

EXCLAMATION,  AND  OTHER  FIGURES 

OF  SPEECH. 

We  are  still  engaged  in  the  consideration  of  figures  of  speec  h  ; 
wlich,  as  they  add  much  to  the  beauty  of  style  when  properly  em- 
ployed, and  are,  at  the  same  time,  liable  to  be  greatly  abused,  require 
a  careful  discussion.  As  it  would  be  tedious  to  dwell  on  all  the  va- 
riety of  figurative  expressions  which  rhetoricians  have  enumerated,  I 
choose  to  select  the  capkal  figures,  such  as  occur  most  frequently,  and 


182  COMPARISON.  lect.  xvn 

*nd  make  my  remarks  on  these;  the  principles  and  rules  laid  down 
concerning  them,  will  sufficiently  direct  us  to  the  use  of  the  rest, 
either  in  prose  or  poetry.  Of  metaphor,  which  is  the  most  common  o/ 
them  all,  I  treated  fully,  and  in  the  last  lecture  I  discoursed  of  hy 
perbole,  personification,  and  apostrophe.  This  lecture  will  nearl) 
finish  what  remains  on  the  head  of  figures. 

Comparison,  or  simile,  is  what  I  am  to  treat  of  first;  a  figure  fre- 
quently employed  both  by  poets  and  prose  writers,  for  the  ornament 
of  composition.  In  a  former  lecture,  I  explained  fully  the  difference 
betwixt  this  and  metaphor.  A  metaphor  is  a  comparison,  implied, 
but  not  expressed  as  such ;  as  when  I  say,  <  Achilles  is  a  lion,'  mean- 
ing, that  he  resembles  one  in  courage  or  strength.  A  compa- 
rison is,  when  the  resemblance  between  two  objects  is  expressed  in 
form,  and  generally  pursued  more  fully  than  the  nature  of  a  meta- 
phor admits ;  as  when  I  say,  '  the  actions  of  princes  are  like  those 
great  rivers,  the  course  of  which  every  one  beholds,  but  their  springs 
have  been  seen  by  few.'  This  slight  instance  will  show,  that  a  happy 
comparison  is  a  kind  of  sparkling  ornament,  which  adds  not  a  little 
lustre  and  beauty  to  discourse ;  and  hence  such  figures  are  termed 
by  Cicero, '  Orationis  lumina.' 

The  pleasure  we  take  in  comparisons  is  just  and  natural.  We  may 
remark  three  different  sources  whence  it  arises.  First,  from  the 
pleasure  which  nature  has  annexed  to  that  act  of  the  mind  by  which 
we  compare  any  two  objects  together,  trace  resemblances  among 
those  that  are  different,  and  differences  among  those  that  resemble 
each  other ;  a  pleasure,  the  final  cause  of  which  is,  to  prompt  us  to 
remark  and  observe,  and  thereby  to  make  us  advance  in  useful  know- 
ledge. This  operation  of  the  mind  is  naturally  and  universally 
agreeable;  as  appears  from  the  delight  which  even  children  have  in 
comparing  things  together,  as  soon  as  they  are  capable  of  attending 
to  the  objects  that  surround  them.  Secondly,  the  pleasure  of 
comparison  arises  from  the  illustration  which  the  simile  employed 
gives  to  the  principal  object;  from  the  clearer  view  of  it  which  it 
presents  ;  or  the  more  strong  impression  of  it  which  it  stamps  upon 
the  mind :  and,  thirdly,  it  arises  from  the  introduction  of  a  new. 
and  commonly  a  splendid  object,  associated  to  the  principal  one  of 
which  we  treat;  and  from  the  agreeable  picture  which  that  object 
presents  to  the  fancy ;  new  scenes  being  thereby  brought  into  view, 
which,  without  the  assistance  of  this  figure,  we  could  not  have  en- 
joyed. 

All  comparisons  whatever  may  be  reduced  under  two  heads,  ex- 
plaining and  embellishing  comparisons.  For  when  a  writer  likens 
the  object  of  which  he  treats  to  any  other  thing,  it  always  is,  or  at 
least  always  should  be,  with  a  view  either  to  make  us  understand  that 
object  more  distinctly,  or  to  dress  it  up  and  adorn  it.  All  manner 
of  subjects  admit  of  explaining  comparisons.  Let  an  author  be  rea- 
soning ever  so  strictly,  or  treating  the  most  abstruse  point  in  philo- 
sophy, he  may  very  properly  introduce  a  comparison,  merely  with  a 
view  to  make  his  subject  better  understood.  Of  this  nature,  is  the 
following  in  Mr.  Hanis's  Hermes,  employed  to  explain  a  very  ab 


lect.  xvii.]  COMPARISON.  183 

slract  point,  the  distinction  between  the  powers  of  sense  and  imagi- 
nation in  the  human  mind.  'As  wax,'  says  he,  'would  not  be  ade- 
quate to  the  purpose  of  signature,  if  it  had  not  the  power  to  retain 
as  well  as  to  receive  the  impression ;  the  same  holds  of  the  soul, 
with  respect  to  sense  and  imagination.  Sense  is  its  receptive  pow 
er;  imagination  its  retentive.  Had  it  sense  without  imagination,  it 
would  not  be  as  wax,  but  as  water,  where,though  all  impressions  be 
instantly  made,  yet  as  soon  as  they  are  made,  they  are  instantly  lost.' 
In  comparisons  of  this  nature,  the  understanding  is  concerned  much 
more  than  the  fancy;  and  therefore  the  only  rules  to  be  observed, 
with  respect  to  them,  are,  that  they  be  clear  and  that  they  be  useful ; 
that  they  tend  to  render  our  conception  of  the  principal  object  more 
distinct;  and  that  they  do  not  lead  our  view  aside,  and  bewilder  it 
with  any  false  light. 

But  embellishing  comparisons,  introduced  not  so  much  with  a 
view  to  inform  and  instruct,  as  to  adorn  the  subject  of  which  we 
treat,  are  those  with  which  we  are  chiefly  concerned  at  present,  as 
figures  of  speech;  and  those,  indeed,  which  most  frequently  oc- 
cur. Resemblance,  as  I  before  mentioned,  is  the  foundation  of 
this  figure.  We  must  not,  however,  take  resemblance,  in  too  strict 
a  sense,  for  actual  similitude  and  likeness  of  appearance.  Two  objects 
may  sometimes  be  very  happily  compared  to  one  another, 
though  they  resemble  each  other,  strictly  speaking,  in  nothing; 
only  because  they  agree  in  the  effects  which  they  produce  upon 
the  mind ;  because  they  raise  a  train  of  similar,  or  what  may  be 
called,  concordant  ideas;  so  that  the  remembrance  of  the  one, 
when  recalled,  serves  to  strengthen  the  impression  made  by  the 
other.  For  example,  to  describe  the  nature  of  soft  and  melancho- 
ly music,  Ossian  says,  '  The  music  of  Carryl  was,  like  the  memo- 
ry of  joys  that  are  past,  pleasant  and  mournful  to  the  soul.'  This 
is  happy  and  delicate.  Yet,  surely,  no  kind  of  music  has  any  re- 
semblance to  a  feeling  of  the  mind,  such  as  the  memory  of  past 
joys.  Had  it  been  compared  to  the  voice  of  the  nightingale,  or 
the  murmur  of  the  stream,  as  it  would  have  been  by  some,  ordinary 
poet,  the  likeness  would  have  been  more  strict:  but,  by  founding  his 
simile  upon  the  effect  which  Carryl's  music  produced,  the  poet,  while 
he  conveys  a  very  tender  image,  gives  us,  at  the  same  time,  a 
much  stronger  impression  of  the  nature  and  strain  of  that  music: 
'Like  the  memory  of  joys  that  are  past,  pleasant  and  mournful  to 
the  soul.' 

In  general,  whether  comparisons  be  founded  on  the  similitude  of 
the  two  objects  compared,  or  on  some  analogy  and  agreement  in 
their  effects,  the  fundamental  requisite  of  a  comparison  is, thai,  it 
shall  serve  to  illustrate  the  object,  for  the  sake  of  which  it  is  intiO- 
duced,  and  to  give  us  a  stronger  conception  of  it.  Some  little  ex- 
cursions of  fancy  may  be  permitted,  in  pursuing  the  simile;  but 
they  must  never  deviate  far  from  the  principal  object.  If  it  be  a 
great  and  noble  one,  every  circumstance  in  the  comparison  must 
tend  to  aggrandize  it;  if  it  be  a  beautiful  one,  to  render  it  more 
amiable;  if  terrible,  to  fill  us  with  more  awe.     But  to  be  a  little  more 


84  COMPARISON.  [lect.  xvii 

particular:  The  rules  to  be  given  concerning  comparisons,  respect 
chiefly  two  articles;  the  propriety  of  their  introduction,  and  the 
nature  of  the  objects  whence  they  are  taken.  First,  the  propriety 
of  their  introduction.  From  what  has  been  already  said  of  com- 
parisons, it  appears,  that  they  are  not,  like  the  figures  of  which  1 
treated  in  the  last  lecture,  the  language  of  strong  passion.  No; 
they  are  the  language  of  imagination  rather  than  of  passion;  of  an 
imagination,  sprightly  indeed,  and  warmed;  but  undisturbed  by 
any  violent  or  agitating  emotion.  Strong  passion  is  too  severe  to 
admit  this  play  of  fancy.  It  has  no  leisure  to  cast  about  for  resem- 
bling objects;  it  dwells  on  that  object  which  has  seized  and  taken 
possession  of  the  soul.  It  is  too  much  occupied  and  filled  by  it,  to 
turn  its  view  aside,  or  to  fix  its  attention  on  any  other  thing.  An 
author,  therefore,  can  scarcely  commit  a  greater  fault,  than  in  the 
midst  of  passion,  to  introduce  a  simile.  Metaphorical  expression 
may  be  allowable  in  such  a  situation ;  though  even  this  may  be  car- 
ried too  far;  but  the  pomp  and  solemnity  of  a  formal  comparison 
is  altogether  a  stranger  to  passion.  It  changes  the  key  in  a  moment ; 
relaxes  and  brings  down  the  mind  ;  and  shows  us  a  writer  perfectly 
at  his  ease,  while  he  is  personating  some  other,  who  is  supposed  to 
tie  under  the  torment  of  agitation.  Our  writers  of  tragedies  are  very 
lot  to  err  here.  In  some  of  Mr.  Rowe's  plays,  these  flowers  of 
sjuiwCs  have  been  strewed  unseasonably.  Mr.  Addison's  Cato,  too, 
/s  justly  censurable  in  this  respect;  as  when  Portius,  just  after  Lucia 
had  bid  him  farewell  for  ever,  and  when  he  should  naturally  have 
been  represented  as  in  the  most  violent  anguish,  makes  his  reply  in 
a  studied  and  affected  comparison : 

Thus  o'er  the  dying  lamp  th'  unsteady  flame 
Hangs  quiv'ring  on  a  point,  leaps  off  by  fits, 
And  falls  again,  as  loth  to  quit  its  hold. 
Thou  must  not  go ;  my  soul  still  hovers  o'er  thee, 
And  can't  get  loose. 

Every  one  must  be  sensible,  that  this  is  quite  remote  from  the  lan- 
guage of  nature  on  such  occasions. 

However,  as  comparison  is  not  the  style  of  strong  passion,  so 
neither,  when  employed  for  embellishment,  is  it  the  language  of  a 
mind  wholly  unmoved.  It  is  a  figure  of  dignity,  and  always  requires 
some  elevation  in  the  subject,  in  order  to  make  it  proper:  for  it  supposes 
the  imagination  to  be  uncommonly  enlivened,  though  the  heart  be 
not  agitated  by  passion.  In  a  word,  the  proper  place  of  compari- 
sons lies  in  the  middle  region, between  the  highly  pathetic,  and  the 
very  humble  style.  This  is  a  wide  field,  and  gives  ample  range  to 
the  figure.  But  even  this  field  we  must  take  care  not  to  overstock 
with  it.  For,  as  we  before  said,  it  is  a  sparkling  ornament;  and  all 
things  that  sparkle,  dazzle  and  fatigue,  if  they  recur  too  often. 
Similes  should,  even  in  poetry,  be  used  with  moderation ;  but  in 
prose  writings,  much  more;  otherwise  the  style  will  become  dis- 
agreeably florid,  and  the  ornament  lose  its  virtue  and  effect. 

I  proceed,  next,  to  the  rules  that  relate  to  objects,  whence  com- 
parisons should  be  drawn;  supposing  them  introduced  in  their  pro 
l»er  place. 


eect.  xvii.]  COMPARISON.  185 

In  the  first  place,  they  must  not  be  drawn  from  things,  which 
have  too  near  and  obvious  a  resemblance  to  the  object  with  which 
we  compare  them.  The  great  pleasure  of  the  act  of  comparing 
lies,  in  discovering  likenesses  among  things  of  different  specie?, 
where  we  would  not,  at  the  first  glance,  expect  a  resemblance. 
There  is  little  art  or  ingenuity  in  pointing  out  the  resem  blance  of  two 
objects,  that  are  so  much  akin,  or  lie  so  near  to  one  another  in  nature, 
;hateveryone  sees  they  must  be  alike.  When  Milton  compares  Satan's 
appearance,  after  his  fall,  to  that  of  the  sun  sufferingan  eclipse,  and  af- 
frighting the  nations  with  portentous  darkness,  we  are  struck  \\  ith  the 
happiness  and  the  dignity  of  the  similitude.  But  when  he  compares 
Eve's  bower  in  Paradise,  to  the  arbour  of  Pomona ;  or  Eve  herself,  to 
a  driad,  or  wood-nymph,  we  receive  little  entertainment ;  as  every  one 
sees,  that  one  arbour  must,  of  course,  in  several  respects,  resemble 
another  arbour,  and  one  beautiful  woman  another  beautiful  woman. 

Among  similes,  faulty  through  too  great  obviousness  of  the  like- 
ness, we  must  likewise  rank  those  which  are  taken  from  objects 
become  trite  and  familiar  in  poetical  language.  Such  are  the  simi- 
les of  a  hero  to  a  lion,  of  a  person  in  sorrow  to  a  flower  drooping 
its  head,  of  violent  passion  to  a  tempest,  of  chastity  to  snow,  o£ 
virtue  to  the  sun  or  the  stars,  and  many  more  of  this  kind,  with 
which  we  are  sure  to  find  modern  writers,  of  second  rate  genius, 
abounding  plentifully ;  handed  down  from  one  writer  of  ver 
ses  to  another,  as  by  hereditary  right  These  comparisons  were, 
at  first,  perhaps,  very  proper  for  the  purposes  to  which  they  are 
applied.  In  the  ancient  original  poets,  who  took  them  directly  from 
nature,  not  from  their  predecessors,  they  had  beauty.  But  thev 
are  now  beaten;  our  ears  are  so  accustomed  to  them,  that  they  give 
no  amusement  to  the  fancy.  There  is,  indeed,  no  mark  by  which 
we  can  more  readily  distinguish  a  poet  of  true  genius,  from  one  ot 
a  barren  imagination,  than  by  the  strain  of  their  comparisons.  All 
who  call  themselves  poets,  affect  them  :  but,  whereas,  a  mere  versi- 
fier eopies  no  new  image  from  nature,  which  appears,  to  his 
uninventive  genius,  exhausted  by  those  who  have  gone  before 
him,  and,  therefore,  contents  himself  with  humbly  following 
their  track;  to  an  author  of  real  fancy,  nature  seems  to  unlock, 
spontaneously,  her  hidden  stores;  and  the  eye,  'quick  glancing 
from  earth  to  Heaven,'  discovers  new  shapes  and  forms,  new  like- 
nesses between  objects  unobserved  before,  which  render  his  similes 
original,  expressive,  and  lively. 

But  in  the  second  place,  as  comparisons  ought  not  to  be  founded 
on  i'^enesses  too  obvious,  still  less  ought  they  to  be  founded  on  those 
which  are  too  faint  and  remote.  For  these,  in  place  of  assisting, 
strain  the  fancy  to  comprehend  them,  and  throw  no  light  upon  the 
subject.  It  is  also  to  be  observed,  that  a  comparison,  which,  in 
the  principal  circumstances,  carries  a  sufficiently  near  resemblance, 
may  become  unnatural  and  obscure,  if  pushed  too  far.  Nothing 
is  more  opposite  to  the  design  of  this  figure,  than  to  hunt  after  a 
°reat  number  of  coincidences  in  minute  points,  merely  to  show 

24 


»»o  COMPARISON.  [lect.  xvii. 

how  far  the  poet's  wit  can  stretch  the  resemblance.     This  is  Mi 
Cowley's  common  fault;  whose  comparisons  generally  run  out  so 
far,  as  to  become  rather  a  studied  exercise  of  wit,  than  an  illustra- 
tion of  the  principal  object.     We  need  only  open  his  works,  his  odes 
especially,  to  find  instances  every  where. 

In  the  third  place,  the  object  from  which  a  comparison  is  drawn, 
should  never  be  an  unknown  object,  or  one  of  which  few  people 
can  form  clear  ideas: '  Ad  inferendam  rebus  lucem,'  says  Quintilian. 
i  repertae  sunt  similitudines.  Praecipue,  igitur,  est  custodiendum  ne 
id  quod  similitudinis  gratia  ascivimus,  autobscurum  sit,aut  ignotum. 
Debet  enim  id  quod  illustrandae  alterius  rei  gratia  assumitur,  ipsum 
esse  clarius  eo  quod  illuminatur.'*  Comparisons,  therefore,  founded 
on  philosophical  discoveries,  or  on  any  thing  with  which  persons  of 
a  certain  trade  only,  or  a  certain  profession,  are  conversant,  attain  not 
their  proper  effect.  They  should  be  taken  from  those  illustrious, 
noted  objects,  which  most  of  the  readers  either  have  seen,  or  can 
strongly  conceive.  This  leads  me  to  remark  a  fault  of  which  mo- 
dern poets  are  very  apt  to  be  guilty.  The  ancients  took  their  simi- 
les from  that  face  of  nature,  and  that  class  of  objects,  with  which 
they  and  their  readers  were  acquainted.  Hence,lions,  and  wolves, 
and  serpents, were  fruitful,  and  very  proper  sources  of  similes  amongst 
them ;  and  these  having  become  a  sort  of  consecrated,  classical  images, 
are  very  commonly  adopted  by  the  moderns;  injudiciously,  how- 
ever, for  the  propriety  of  them  is  now  in  a  great  measure  lost. 
It  is  only  at  second  hand,  and  by  description,  that  we  are  acquainted 
with  many  of  those  objects ;  and,  to  most  readers  of  poetry,  it  were 
more  to  the  purpose,  to  describe  lions  or  serpents,  by  similes  taken 
from  men,  than  to  describe  men  by  lions.  No  w-a-days,  we  can  more  ea- 
sily form  the  conception  of  a  fierce  combat  between  two  men,  than  be- 
tween a  bull  and  a  tiger.  Every  country  has  a  scenery  peculiar  to  it- 
self, and  the  imagery  of  every  good  poet  will  exhibit  it.  The  i  n  traduc- 
tion of  unknown  objects,or  of  a  foreign  scenery,  betrays  a  poet  copying 
not  after  nature,  but  from  other  writers.  I  have  only  to  observe  further, 

In  the  fourth  place,  that,  in  compositions  of  a  serious  or  elevated 
kind,  similes  should  never  be  taken  from  low  or  mean  objects.  These 
are  degrading:  whereas,  similes  are  commonly  intended  to  embel- 
lish, and  to  dignify:  and  therefore,  unless  in  burlesque  writings,  or 
where  similes  are  introduced  purposely  to  vilify  and  diminish  an 
object,  mean  ideas  should  never  be  presented  to  us.  Some  of  Ho- 
mer's comparisons  have  been  taxed,  without  reason,  on  this  account. 
For  it  is  to  be  remembered,  that  the  meanness  or  dignity  of  objects 
depends,  in  a  great  degree,  on  the  ideas  and  manners  of  the  age 
wherein  we  live.  Many  similes,  therefore,  drawn  from  the  inci- 
dents of  rural  life,  which  appear  low  to  us,  had  abundance  of  digni- 
ty in  trose  simpler  ages  of  antiquity. 

*  'Comparisons  have  lieen  introduced  into  discourse,  for  the  sake  of  throwing  light 
on  the  subject.  We  must,  therefore,  be  much  on  our  guard,  not  to  employ,  as  the  ground 
of  our  simile,  any  object  which  is  either  obscure  or  unknown.     That,  surety,  which  i 
used  for  the  purpose  of  illustrating  some  other  tiling,  ought  to  \te  more  obvious  and 
plain,  than  the  thing  intended  to  be  illustrated. ' 


lect.  xvn.]  ANTITHESIS.  187 

I  have  now  considered  such  of  the  figures  of  speech  as  seemed 
most  to  merit  a  full  andparticular  discussion:  metaphor,  hyperbole, 
personification,  apostrophe,  and  companso  •,     A  few  more  yet  re 
main  to  be  mentioned ;  the  proper  use  and  conduct  of  which  will 
be  easily  understood  from  the  principles  already  laid  down. 

As  comparison  is  founded  on  the  resemblance,  so  antithesis  on 
the  contrast  or  opposition  of  two  objects.  Contrast  has  always  this 
effect,  to  make  each  of  the  contrasted  objects  appear  in  the  stronger 
light.  White,  for  instance,  never  appears  so  bright,  as  when  it  is 
op]  osed  to  black;  and  when  both  are  viewed  together.  Antithe- 
sis, therefore,  may,  on  many  occasions,  be  employed  to  advantage, 
in  order  to  strengthen  the  impression  which  we  intend  that  any  ob- 
ject should  make.  Thus  Cicero,in  his  oration  for  Milo,  represent- 
ing the  improbability  of  Milo's  forming  a  design  to  take  away  the 
life  of  Clodius,  at  a  time  when  all  circumstances  were  unfavourable 
to  such  a  design,  and  after  he  had  let  other  opportunities  slip  when 
he  could  have  executed  the  same  design,  if  he  had  formed  it,  with 
much  more  ease  and  safety,  heightens  our  conviction  of  this  impro- 
bability by  a  skilful  use  of  this  figure  :  'Quern  igitur  cum  omnium 
gratia  interficere  noluit,  hunc  voluit  cum  aliquorum  querela  ?  Quern 
jure,  quern  loco,  quern  tempore,  quem  impune,  non  est  ausus,  hunc 
injurio,  iniquoloco,  alieno  tempore,  periculo  capitis,  non  dubitavit 
occidere  ?'*  In  order  to  render  an  antithesis  more  complete,  it  is 
always  of  advantage,  that  the  words  and  members  of  the  sentence, 
expressing  the  contrasted  objects,  be,  as  in  this  instance  of  Cicero's, 
similarly  constructed,  and  made  to  correspond  to  each  other.  This 
leads  us  to  remark  the  contrast  more,  by  setting  the  things  which 
we  oppose  more  clearly  over  against  each  other;  in  the  same  man- 
ner as  when  we  contrast  a  black  and  a  white  object,  in  order  tc 
perceive  the  full  difference  of  their  colour,  we  would  choose  to  have 
both  objects  of  the  same  bulk,  and  placed  in  the  same  light.  Their 
resemblance  to  each  other,  in  certain  circumstances,  makes  their 
disagreement  in  others  more  palpable. 

At  the  same  time,  I  must  observe,  that  the  frequent  use  of  anh 
thesis,  especially  where  the  opposition  in  the  words  is  nice  and 
quaint,  is  apt  to  render  style  disagreeable.  Such  a  sentence  as  the 
following,  from  Seneca,  does  very  well,  where  it  stands  alone  :  'Si 
quem  volueris  esse  divitem,  non  est  quod  augens  divitias,  sed  minu- 
as  cupiditates.'t  Or  this:  '  Si  ad  naturam  vives,  nunquam  eris  pau- 
per ;  si  ad  opinionem,  nunquam  dives.' J  A  maxim  or  moral  say  - 
ing,  properly  enough  receives  this  form ;  both  because  it  is  suppose  J 

*  'Is  it  credible  that,  when  he  declined  putting  Clodius  to  death  with  the  consent  of 
all,  he  would  ".hoose  to  do  it  with  the  disapprobation  of  many  ?  Can  you  believe  that 
the  person  whom  he  scrupled  to  slay,  when  he  might  have  done  so  with  full  justice,  in 
a  convenient  place,  at  a  proper  time,  with  secure  impunity,  he  made  no  scruple  to  mur- 
der against  justice,  in  an  unfavourable  place,  at  an  unseasonable  time,  and  at  the 
risk  of  capital  condemnation  ?' 

f  '  If  you  seek  to  make  one  rich,  study  not  to  increase  his  stores,  but  to  diminish 
his  desires.' 

{  'If  you  regulate  your  desires  according  to  the  standard  of  nature,  you  will  never 
be  poor  ;  K  according  to  the  standard  o'  opinion,  you  will  never  be  rich.' 

■2E 


188  INTERROGATION  AND  [lect.  xvii. 

to  be  the  fruit  of  medication,  and  because  it  is  designed  to  be  engra- 
ven on  the  memory,  which  recalls  it  more  easily  by  the  help  of  such 
contrasted  expressions.  But  where  a  string  of  such  sentences  suc- 
ceed each  other;  where  this  becomes  an  author's  favourite  and  pre- 
vailing manner  of  expressing  himself,  his  style  is  faulty;  and  it  is 
upon  this  account  Seneca  has  been  often,  and  justly,  censured. 
Such  a  style  appears  too  studied  and  laboured ;  it  gives  us  the  im«» 
pression  of  an  author  attending  more  to  his  manner  of  saying  things, 
than  to  the  things  themselves  which  he  says.  Dr.  Young,  though  a 
writer  of  real  genius,  was  too  fond  of  antithesis.  In  his  Estimate  of 
Human  Life,  we  find  whole  passages  that  run  in  such  a  strain  as  this: 
'  The  peasant  complains  aloud  ;  the  courtier  in  secret  repines.  In 
want,  what  distress  ?  in  affluence,  what  satiety  ?  The  great  are  un- 
der as  much  difficulty  to  expend  with  pleasure,  as  the  mean  to  la- 
bour with  success.  The  ignorant,  through  ill-grounded  hope,  are 
disappointed ;  the  knowing,  through  knowledge,  despond.  Igno- 
rance occasions  mistake;  mistake  disappointment;  and  disappoint- 
ment is  misery.  Knowledge,  on  the  other  hand,  gives  true  judg- 
ment; and  true  judgment  of  human  things,  gives  a  demonstration 
of  their  insufficiency  to  our  peace.'  There  is  too  much  glitter  in 
such  a  style  as  this,  to  please  long.  We  are  fatigued,  by  attending 
to  such  quaint  and  artificial  sentences  often  repeated. 

There  is  anothei  sort  of  antithesis,  the  beauty  of  which  consists 
in  surprising  us  by  tne  unexpected  contrast  of  things  which  it  brings 
together.  Much  wit  may  be  shown  in  this :  but  it  belongs  wholly 
to  pieces  of  professed  wit  and  humour,  and  can  find  no  place  in 
grave  compositions.  Mr.  Pope,  who  is  remarkably  fond  of  antithe- 
sis, is  often  happy  in  this  use  of  the  figure.  So,  in  his  Rape  of  the 
Lock : 

Whether  the  nymph  shall  break  Diana's  law, 

Or  some  frail  china  jar  receive  a  flaw; 

Or  stain  her  honour,  or  her  new  brocade ; 

Forget  her  prayers,  or  miss  a  masquerade; 

Or  lose  her  heart  or  necklace  at  a  ball, 

Or  wheiher  Heav'n  has  doom'd  that  Shock  must  fall. 

What  is  called  the  point  of  an  epigram,  consists,  for  the  most  part,  in 
some  antithesis  of  this  kind  ;  surprising  us  with  the  smart  and  unex- 
pected turn  which  it  gives  to  the  thought;  and  in  the  fewer  words 
it  is  brought  out,  it  is  always  the  happier. 

Comparisons  and  antitheses  are  figures  of  a  cool  nature;  produc- 
tions of  imagination,  not  of  passion.  Interrogations  and  exclama- 
tions, of  which  lam  nextto  speak, are  passionate  figures.  They  are, 
indeed,  on  so  many  occasions,  the  native  language  of  passion,  that 
their  use  is  extremely  frequent;  and  in  ordinary  conversation,  when 
men  are  heated,  they  prevail  as  much  as  in  the  most  sublime  oia- 
tory.  The  unfigured  literal  use  of  interrogation,  is  to  ask  a  ques- 
tion ;  but  when  men  are  prompted  by  passion,  whatever  they  would 
affirm  or  deny,  with  great  vehemence,  they  naturally  put  in  the  form 
/fa  question;  expressing  thereby  the  strongest  confidence  of  the 
truth  of  their  own  sentiment,  and  appealing  to  their  hearers  for  the 
impossibility  of  the  contrary.     Thus  in  scripture:  'God  is  not  a 


lect.  xvn. J  EXCLAMATION.  189 

man  that  he  should  lie,  neither  the  son  of  man,  that  he  should  re- 
cent. Hath  he  said  it,  and  shall  he  not  do  it?  Hath  he  spoken 
it,  and  shall  he  not  make  it  good?'*  So  Demosthenes,  addressing 
himself  to  the  Athenians:  <Tell  me,  will  you  still  go  about  and  ask 
one  another,  what  news?  What  can  be  more  astonishing  news  than 
this,  that  the  man  of  Macedon  makes  war  upon  the  Athenians,  and 
disposes  of  the  affairs  of  Greece?  Is  Philip  dead?  No,  but  he  is 
6ick.  What  signifies  it  to  you  whether  he  be  dead  or  alive  ?  For,  if 
any  thing  happens  to  this  Philip,  you  will  immediately  raise  up  an- 
other.' All  this,  delivered  without  interrogation,  had  been  faint  and 
ineffectual ;  but  the  warmth  and  eagerness  which  this  questioning 
method  expresses,  awakens  the  hearers,  and  strikes  them  with  much 
greater  force. 

Interrogation  may  often  be  applied  with  propriety,  in  the  course 
of  no  higher  emotions  than  naturally  arise  in  pursuing  some  close 
and  earnest  reasoning.  But  exclamations  belong  only  to  stronger 
emotions  of  the  mind;  to  surprise,  admiration,  anger,  joy,  grief,  and 
the  like : 

Heu  pietas !  hcu  prisca  fides !  invictaque  bello 
Dextra ! 

Both  interrogation  and  exclamation,  and,  indeed,  all  passionate 
figures  of  speech,  operate  upon  us  by  means  of  sympathy.  Sym- 
pathy is  a  very  powerful  and  extensive  principle  in  our  nature,  dis- 
posing us  to  enter  into  every  feeling  and  passion,  which  we  behold 
expressed  by  others.  Hence,  a  single  person  coming  into  company 
with  strong  marks,  either  of  melancholy  or  joy,  upon  his  counte- 
nance, will  diffuse  that  passion,  in  a  moment,  through  the  whole 
circle.  Hence,  in  a  great  crowd,  passions  are  so  easily  caught,  and 
so  fast  spread,  by  that  powerful  contagion  which  the  animated  looks, 
cries,  and  gestures  of  a  multitude,  never  fail  to  carry.  Now,  inter- 
rogations and  exclamations,  being  natural  signs  of  a  moved  and 
agitated  mind,  always,  when  they  are  properly  used,  dispose  us  to 
sympathize  with  the  dispositions  of  those  who  use  them,  and  to  feel 
as  they  feel. 

From  this  it  follows,  that  the  great  rule  with  regard  to  the  con- 
duct of  such  figures  is,  that  the  writer  attend  to  the  manner  in  which 
nature  dictates  to  us  to  express  any  emotion  or  passion,  and  that 
he  give  his  language  that  turn,  and  no  other;  above  all,  that  he 
never  affect  the  style  of  a  passion  which  he  does  no  feel.  With  in- 
terrogations he  may  use  a  good  deal  of  freedom;  these,  as  above 
observed,  falling  in  so  much  with  the  ordinary  course  of  language 
and  reasoning,  even  when  no  great  vehemence  is  supposed  to  have 
place  in  the  mind.  But,  with  respect  to  exclamations,  he  must  be 
more  reserved.  Nothing  has  a  worse  effect  than  the  frequent  and 
unseasonable  use  of  them.  Raw,  juvenile  writers,  imagine,  that 
by  pouring  them  forth  often,  they  render  their  compositions  warm 
and  animated.  Whereas  quite  the  contrary  follows.  They  render 
it  frigid  to  excess.  When  an  author  is  always  calling  upon  us  to  en- 
ter into  transports  which  he  has  said  nothing  to  inspire,  we  are  both 

*  Numbers,  c'np  xxiii.  v.  19. 


190  INTERROGATION,  &c.  [lect  xvn. 

disgusted  and  enraged  at  him.  He  raises  no  sympathy  ;  for  he  gives 
as  no  passion  of  his  own,  in  which  we  can  take  part.  He  gives  us 
words  and  not  passion;  and  of  course,  can  raise  no  passion,  unless 
that  of  indignation.  Hence,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  he  was  not  much 
mistaken,  who  said,  that  when,  on  looking  into  a  book,  he  found 
the  pages  thick  bespangled  with  the  point  which  is  called,  'Punc- 
tum  admirationis,'  he  judged  this  to  be  asufficient  reason  for  his  lay- 
ing it  aside.  And,  indeed,  were  it  not  for  the  help  of  this  'punc- 
tual admirationis,'  with  which  many  writers  of  the  rapturous  kind 
so  much  abound,  one  would  be  often  at  a  loss  to  discover,  whether 
or  not  it  was  exclamation  which  they  aimed  at.  For,  it  has  now 
become  a  fashion,  among  these  writers,  to  subjoin  points  of  admi- 
ration to  sentences,  which  contain  nothing  but  simple  affirmations, 
or  propositions;  as  if,  by  an  affected  method  of  pointing,  they 
could  transform  them  in  the  reader's  mind  into  high  figures  of  elo- 
quence. Much  akin  to  this,  is  another  contrivance  practised  by 
some  writers,  of  separating  almost  all  the  members  of  the  senten- 
ces from  each  other,  by  blank  lines;  as  if,  by  setting  them  thus 
asunder,  they  bestowed  some  special  importance  upon  them  ■  and 
required  us,  in  going  along,  to  make  a  pause  at  every  other  nord, 
and  weigh  it  well.  This,  I  think,  may  be  called  a  typograpnical 
figure  of  speech.  Neither,  indeed,  since  we  have  been  led  to  men- 
tion the  arts  of  writers  for  increasing  the  importance  of  their  words, 
does  another  custom,  which  prevailed  very  much  some  time  ago, 
seem  worthy  of  imitation  ;  I  mean  that  of  distinguishing  the  signifi- 
cant words,  in  every  sentence,  by  italic  characters.  On  some  occa- 
sions, it  is  very  proper  to  use  such  distinctions.  But  when  we  carry 
them  so  far,  as  to  mark  with  them  every  supposed  emphatical  word, 
these  words  are  apt  to  multiply  so  fast  in  the  author's  imagination, 
that  every  page  is  crowded  with  italics;  which  can  produce  no  effect 
whatever,  but  to  hurt  the  eye,  and  create  confusion.  Indeed,  if  the 
sense  point  not  out  the  most  emphatical  expressions,  a  variation  in 
the  type,  especially  when  occurring  so  frequently,  will  give  small  aid. 
And,  accordingly,  the  most  masterly  writers,  of  late,  have  with 
good  reason  laid  aside  all  those  feeble  props  of  signincancy,  and 
trusted  wholly  to  the  weight  of  their  sentiments  for  commanding 
attention.     But  to  return  from  this  disgression. 

Another  figure  of  speech,  proper  only  to  animated  and  warm 
composition,  is  what  some  critical  writers  call  vision;  when,  in 
place  of  relating  something  that  is  past,  we  use  the  present  tense,  and 
describe  it  as  actually  passing  before  our  eyes.  Thus  Cicero,  in  his 
fourth  oration  against  Catiline.  '  Videor  enim  mihi  banc  urbem 
videre,  lucem  orbis  terrarum  atque  arcem  omnium  gentium,  subito 
uno  incendio  concidentem  ;  cerno  animo  sepulta  in  patria  miseros 
atque  .nsepultos  acervos  civium;  versatnr  mihi  ante  ocjIos  aspectus 
Cethegi,  et  furor,  in  vestra  caede  bacchantis.'*     This  manner  of  des- 

*  '  1  seem  to  myself  to  behold  this  city,  the  orainenf  of  the  earth  mil  the  capital  of 
all  nations,  suddenly  involved  in  one  conflagration.  I  see  before  me  the  slaughtered 
heaps  of  citizens  lying  unburied  in  the  midst  of  their  ruined  country.  The  furious 
countenance  of  Cethegus  rises  to  m.v  view,  while  with  a  savage  joy  he  is  triumphing 
in  your  miseries.' 


lect   xvii.]  AMPLIFICATION.  1.91 

«ripticn  supposes  a  sort  of  enthusiasm  which  carries  the  person  whtt 
describes  it  in  some  measure  out  of  himself;  and  when  well  execu 
ted,  must  needs  impress  the  reader  or  hearer  strongly,  by  the  force 
of  that  sympathy  which  I  have  before  explained.  But,  in  Grder 
to  a  successful  execution,  it  requires  an  uncommonly  warm  imagi- 
nation, and  such  a  happy  selection  of  circumstances,  as  shall  make 
us  think  we  see  before  our  eyes  the  scene  that  is  described.  Other 
wise,  it  shares  tbe  same  fate  with  all  feeble  attempts  towards  pas- 
sionate figures;  that  of  throwing  ridicule  upon  the  author,  and  leav- 
ing the  reader  more  cool  and  uninterested  than  he  was  before.  The 
same  observations  are  to  be  applied  to  Repetition,  Suspension,  Cor- 
rection, and  many  more  of  those  figurative  forms  of  speech,  which 
rhetoricians  have  enumerated  among  the  beauties  of  eloquence. 
They  are  beautiful,  or  not,  exactly  in  proportion  as  they  are  na- 
tive expressions  of  the  sentiment  or  passion  intended  to  be  height- 
ened by  them.  Let  nature  and  passion  always  speak  their  own 
language,  and  they  will  suggest  figures  in  abundance.  But  when 
we  seek  to  counterfeit  a  warmth  which  we  do  not  feel,  no  figures 
will  either  supply  the  defect,  or  conceal  the  imposture. 

There  is  one  figure  (and  I  shall  mention  no  more)  of  frequent  use 
among  all  public  speakers,  particularly  at  the  bar,  which  Quintilian 
insists  upon  considerably,  and  calls  amplification.  It  consists  in  an 
artful  exaggeration  of  all  the  circumstances  of  some  object  or  action 
which  we  want  to  place  in  a  strong  light,  either  a  good  or  a  bad  one. 
It  is  not  so  properly  one  figure,  as  the  skilful  management  of  several 
which  we  make  to  tend  to  one  point.  It  may  be  carried  on  by  a 
proper  use  of  magnifying  or  extenuating  terms,  by  a  regular  enu- 
meration of  particulars,  or  by  throwing  together,  as  into  one  mass, 
a  crowd  of  circumstances;  by  suggesting  comparisons  also  with 
things  of  a  like  nature.  But  the  principal  instrument  by  which  it 
works,  is  by  a  climax,  or  a  gradual  rise  of  one  circumstance  above 
mother,  till  our  ideas  be  raised  to  the  utmost.  I  spoke  formerly  of 
a  climax  in  sound ;  a  climax  in  sense,  when  well  carried  on,  is  a  figure 
which  never  fails  to  amplify  strongly.  The  common  example 
of  this,  is  that  noted  passage  in  Cicero,  which  every  school-boy 
knows:  'Facinusest  vincire  civem  Romanum;  scelus  verberare, 
prope  parricidium,  necare;  quiddicam  in  crucem  tollere?'*  I  shall 
give  an  instance  from  a  printed  pleading  of  a  famous  Scotch  lawyer, 
Sir  George  M'Kenzie.  It  is  in  a  charge  to  the  Jury,  in  the  case  of 
a  woman  accused  of  murdering  her  own  child.  'Gentlemen  if  one 
man  had  any  how  slain  another,  if  an  adversary  had  killed  nis  op- 
poser,  or  a  woman  occasioned  the  death  of  her  enemy,  even  these 
criminals  would  have  been  capitally  punished  by  the  Cornelian  law: 
but,  if  this  guiltless  infant,  who  could  make  no  enemy,  had  been 
murdered  by  its  own  nurse,  what  punishments  would  not  then  the 
mother  have  demanded?     With  what  cries  and  exclamations  would 


*  '  It  is  a  crime  to  put  a  Roman  citizen  in  bonds  ;  it  is  the  height  of  guilt  to  scourge 
Mia  ;  little  lesr,  than  parricide  to  put  him  to  death.  What  name  then  shall  I  give  to 
crucifying  him  ?' 


192 


AMPLIFICATION. 


[lect.  XVII 


she  have  stimnea  your  ears  1  What  shall  we  say,  then,  when  a  wo- 
man, guilty  of  homicide,  a  mother,  of  the  murder  of  her  innocent 
child,  hath  comprised  all  those  misdeeds  in  one  single  crime  ;  a 
crime,  in  its  own  nature  detestable ;  in  a  woman,  prodigious  ;  in  a 
mother,  incredible;  and  perpetrated  against  one  whose  age  called 
for  compassion,  whose  near  relation  claimed  affection,  and  whose  in- 
nocence deserved  the  highest  favour.'  I  must  take  notice,  however, 
that  such  regular  climaxes  as  these,  though  they  have  considerable 
beauty,  have,  at  the  same  time,  no  small  appearance  of  art  and 
study  ;  and,  therefore,  though  they  may  be  admitted  into  formal 
harangues,  yet  they  speak  not  the  language  of  great  earnestness 
and  passion,  which  seldom  proceed  by  steps  so  regular.  Nor, 
indeed,  for  the  purposes  of  effectual  persuasion,  are  they  likely  to  be 
so  successful,  as  an  arrangement  of  circumstances  in  a  less  artificial 
order.  For  when  much  art  appears,  we  are  always  put  on  our 
guard  against  the  deceits  of  eloquence  ;  but  when  a  speaker  has  rea- 
soned strongly,  and,  by  force  of  argument,  has  made  good  his  main 
point,  he  may  then,  taking  advantage  of  the  favourable  bent  of  our 
minds,  make  use  of  such  artificial  figures  to  confirm  our  belief,  and 
to  warm  our  minds. 

Q,UESTIO]VS. 


With  what  are  we  still  engaged  ; 
and  why  do  they  require  a  careful  dis- 
cussion ?  Why  does  our  author  select 
only  the  capital  figures  for  discussion  ? 
What  figures  have  already  been  dis- 
cussed ?  With  what  does  our  author 
begin  ;  and  what  is  said  of  it?  In  a 
former  lecture,  what  was  fully  explain- 
ed ?  What  is  a  metaphor ;  and  how  is 
this  illustrated  ?  What  is  a  compari- 
son ;  and  what  example  is  given  ? 
What  will  this  slight  instance  show? 
What  is  remarked  of  the  pleasure 
which  we  take  in  comparison;  and 
how  many  sources  of  it  shall  we  no- 
tice ?  What  is  the  first  source  ?  How 
does  it  appear  that  this  operation  of  the 
mind  is  naturally  and  universally 
agreeable  ?  What  is  the  second  source 
whence  this  pleasure  arises?  And 
what  is  the  third?  Under  what  two 
heads  may  all  comparisons  whatever 
be  reduced;  and  why?  How  exten- 
sively may  explaining  comparisons  be 
used  ?  How  is  this  remark  illustrated ; 
and  what  example  is  given  ?  In  com- 
parisons of  this  nature,  what  faculty  is 
most  employed;  and,  therefore,  what 
are  the  only  rules  to  be  observed  in 
them  ?  Of  embellishing  comparisons, 
what  is  here  observed  ?  What  was  be- 
fore mentioned  as  th'.  foundation  of  this 
♦igure  ?    Why  must  "we  not,  however, 


take  resemblance  in  too  strict  a  sense 
for  actual  similitude  and  likeness  of 
appearance?  What  example  to  il- 
lustrate this,  is  given  from  Ossian?  Of 
this,  what  is  observed ;  yet  what  fol- 
lows? How  might  the  likeness  have 
been  rendered  more  strict  ?  But,  by 
founding  his  simile  on  the  effect  which 
Carryl's  music  produced,  what  does 
he  give  us  ?  In  general,  what  is  the 
fundamental  requisite  of  a  comparl 
son  ?  In  pursuing  the  simile,  what  may 
be  permitted ;  but  from  what  must  they 
never  deviate  ?  What  remark  follows  ? 
But,  to  be  a  little  more  particular,  whai 
two  articles  do  the  rules  to  be  given 
concerning  comparisons,  respect  ?  From 
what  has  already  been  said  of  compa- 
risons, what  appears?  Of  what  are 
they  the  language  ?  Why  is  strong  pas- 
sion too  severe  to  admit  this  play  of 
fancy  ?  What,  therefore,  is  one  of  the 
greatest  faults  that  an  author  can  com- 
mit? Of  metaphorical  expressions  in 
such  a  situation,  what  is  observed? 
But  what  is  altogether  a  stranger  to 
passion  ;  and  why  ?  What  writers  are 
very  apt  to  err  here  ;  and  what  indi- 
viduals are  mentioned  ?  In  Mr.  Addi- 
son's Cato,  what  instance  is  mentioned  ? 
Repeat  the  passage.  Of  what  must 
every  one  here  be  sensible  ?  However, 
tts  comparison  is  not  the  style  of  strong 


LECT.  XVII. J 


QUESTIONS. 


192  a 


passion,  what  follows  ?  It  is  a  figure  of 
what  kind ;  what  does  it  require ;  and 
why ?  Where  does  the  proper  place  of 
comparison  he  ?  Of  this  field,  what  is 
observed  ?  But  even  here,  of  what  must 
we  take  care ;  and  why  ?  Even  in  poe- 
try, how  should  similes  be  used  ;  and 
why  with  much  more  in  prose?  To 
what  does  our  author  next  proceed? 
In  the  first  place,  from  what  object 
should  they  not  be  drawn  ;  and  why  ? 
In  pointing  out  what,  is  there  little  art 
or  ingenuity/  What  illustrations  of 
these  remarks  are  given  from  Milton  ? 
Among  similes,  faulty  through  too 
great  obviousness  of  the  likeness,  we 
must  likewise  rank  those  taken  from 
what  objects?  What  examples  are 
given ;  and  what  writers  use  them  ? 
In  whom  had  these  comparisons  beau- 
ty ;  and  why  ?  At  present,  what  is 
their  effect ;  and  what  remark  follows  ? 
What  is  the  difference,  in  this  respect, 
between  a  mere  versifier,  and  an  au- 
thor of  real  fancy?  From  what  objects, 
in  the  second  place,  ought  not  compari- 
sons to  be  drawn;  and  why  not? 
What  is  also  to  be  observed?  What 
practice  is  directly  opposite  to  the  de- 
sign of  this  figure  ?  This  is  what  au- 
thor's common  fault ;  and  of  his  com- 
parisons, generally,  what  is  observed  ? 
In  the  third  place,  from  what  objects 
should  comparisons  never  be  drawn  ? 
What  says  Quintilian  on  this  subject  ? 
What  comparisons,  therefore,  attain 
not  their  proper  effect?  From  what 
objects  should  they  be  taken?  This 
leads  our  author  to  remark  what  fault  ? 
Whence  did  the  ancients  take  their  simi- 
les ;  and  hence,  what  follows  ?  Of  the 
adoption  of  these  images  by  the  mo- 
derns, what  is  observed  ?  How  is  this 
remark  illustrated  ?  Every  country  has 
what ;  and  what  follows  ?  In  the  fourth 
place,  what  only  has  our  author  to  ob- 
serve ?  Why  should  they  not?  Whose 
comparisons  have  been  taxed  on  this 
account ;  but  why  without  reason  ? 
What  remark  follows? 

What  fitrures  has  our  author  now 
considered?  Of  those  that  remain  to 
be  mentioned,  what  is  observed  ?  What 
is  the  difference  between  comparison 
and  antithesis?  Contrast  has  always 
what  effect;  and  what  instance  is 
given  ?  For  what  purpose,  therefore, 
may  antithesis  be  employed,  on  many 
occasions,  to  advantage  ?  Thus  Cicero, 
in  his  oration  for  Milo,  makes  what  re- 


presentation ?  Repeat  the  passage.  In 
order  to  render  an  antithesis  more  com- 
plete, what  is  always  of  advantage  ? 
How  does  this  lead  us  the  more  to  re- 
mark the  contrast  ?  Their  resemblance 
to  each  other,  in  certain  circumstances, 
produces  what  effect?  At  the  same 
time,  on  the  frequent  use  of  the  anti- 
thesis, what  is  observed?  What  sen- 
tences from  Seneca  are  here  intro- 
duced ?  Why  does  a  maxim,  or  moral 
saying,  properly  receive  this  form  ? 
But  when  is  an  author',  style  faulty? 
How  does  such  a  styie  appear ;  and 
what  impression  does  it  give  us  ?  Of  Dr. 
Young,  what  i3  here  observed ;  and 
from  his  writings,  what  instances  ol 
this  are  given  ?  Of  this  style,  what  is 
observed ;  and  by  what  are  we  fa- 
tigued ?  What  other  sort  of  antithesis 
is" there?  In  it,  what  may  be  shown ; 
but  to  what  only  does  it  belong  ?  What 
instanceof  happy  antithesis  is  here  intro- 
duced from  Mr.  Pope  ?  In  what  does 
the  point  of  an  epigram  principally 
consist?  Comparisons  and  antitheses 
are  figures  of  what  nature;  and  of 
what  are  they  the  productions  ?  What 
kind  of  figures  are  interrogations  and 
exclamations?  Why  is  their  use  ex- 
tremely frequent ;  and  where  do  they 
prevail  as  much  as  in  the  most  sublime 
oratory  ?  What  is  the  literal  use  of  in- 
terrogation ;  and  when  is  it  used  as  a 
figurative  expression  ?  What  is  there- 
by expressed ;  and  what  appeal  is 
made  ?  What  example  is  given  from 
the  scriptures  ?  What  example  is  also 
given  from  Demosthenes'  address  to 
the  Athenians  ?  What  is  said  of  it  ? 
When  may  interrogations  often  be  aj> 
plied  with  propriety  ?  But  to  what  only 
do  exclamations  belong?  By  means  of 
what  do  all  passionate  figures  of  speech 
operate  upon  us ;  and  of  it,  what  ia 
observed  ?  Hence,  by  a  single  person, 
what  effect  may  be  produced ;  and 
what  effect  does  it  also  produce  on  a 
great  crowd?  When  interrogations  and 
exclamations  are  properly  used,  to 
what  do  they  dispose  us;  and  why? 
From  this,  what  follows  ?  With  inter- 
rogations, what  may  he  use  ;  and  why? 
Bat  with  respect  to  exclamations,  why 
must  he  be  more  reserved  ?  What  dc 
juvenile  writers  imagine  ?  But  what  is 
their  effect?  How  is  this  illustrated; 
and  hence,  what  is  our  author  inclined 
to  think?  What  remark  follows?  Why 
is  this  the  case  ?  Whs^l  other  contrj* 


192  o 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  XVII 


vn.nce,  wh'.cn  is  mucn  akin  to  this,  is 
practised  by  some  writers  ?  What  may 
this  be  culled  ?  What  other  custom, 
which  prevailed  some  time  ago,  is  un- 
worthy of  imitation  ?  Though  on  some 
occasions  they  may  be  very  proper, 
yet,  to  what  danger  are  we  exposed  by 
carrying  them  too  far  1  If  the  sense 
point  not  out  the  most  emphatical  ex- 
pressions, what  will  give  but  little  as- 
sistance ;  and  accordingly,  what  course 
have  the  most  masterly  writers  latterly 
pursued?  What  is  the  next  figure  of 
speech  mentioned  ;  what  is  meant  by 
it ;  and  when  only  should  it  be  used  ? 
What  example  is  given  from  Cicero  ? 
What  does  this  manner  of  description 
suppose ;  and  when  well  executed, 
what  is  its  effect  ?  But,  in  order  to  a 
successful  examination  of  it,  what  does 
it  require  ?  Otherwise,  what  fate  will 
it  share?  To  what  other  figures  of 
epeech  are  the  same  observations 
applicable;  and  in  what  proportion 
are  they  beautiful  ?  What  remark  fol- 
lows ?  What  is  the  last  figure  of  speech 
mentioned  ;  and  m  what  does  it  con- 
sist ?  Of  it,  what  is  observed ;  and  how 


may  it  be  carried  on  ?  What  is  the  prin- 
cipal instrument  by  which  it  works  ? 
What  is  the  effect  of  climax  in  sense, 
when  well  carried  on?  What  example 
is  given  from  Cicero  ?  What  one  from 
a  pleading  of  Sir  George  M'Kenzie  ? 
Of  what  must  our  author  take  notice, 
relative  to  such  regular  climaxes  ;  and 
why? 


ANALYSIS. 


1.  Comparison. 

a.  Explaining  comparisons. 
B.  Embellishing  comparisons. 

Rules  concerning  comparisons. 
A.  Obviousness  of  resemblance  should 
be  avoided. 

b.  The  likeness  should  not  be  too  re 
mote. 

c.  They  should  not  be  drawn  from 
unknown  objects. 

D.  They  should  not  be  taken  from 
low  or  mean  objects. 

2.  Antithesis. 

3.  Interrogation. 

4.  Exclamation. 

5.  Vision. 

6.  Amplification. 


LECTURE  XVIII. 


FIGURATIVE  LANGUAGE.— GENERAL  CHARACTERS 
OF  STYLE.— DIFFUSE,  CONCISE,  FEEBLE,  NER- 
VOUS—DRY,  PLAIN,   NEAT,   ELEGANT,    FLOWERY. 

Having  treated  at  considerable  length  of  the  figures  of  speech, 
of  their  origin,  of  their  nature,  and  of  the  management  of  such  oi 
them  as  are  important  enough  to  require  a  particular  discussion,  be- 
fore finally  dismissing  this  subject,  I  think  it  incumbent  on  me  to 
make  some  observations  concerning  the  proper  use  of  figurative  lan- 
guage in  general.  These,  indeed,  I  have,  in  part,  already  antici- 
pated. But  as  great  errors  are  often  committed  in  this  part  of  style, 
especially  by  young  writers,  it  may  be  of  use  that  I  bring  together, 
under  one  view,  the  most  material  directions  on  thjs  head. 

I  begin  with  repeating  an  observation,  formerly  made,  that  neither 
all  the  beauties,  nor  even  the  chief  beauties  of  composition,  depend 
upon  tropes  and  figures.  Some  of  the  most  sublime  and  most  pathe- 
tic passages  of  the  most  admired  authors,  both  in  prose  and  poetry, 
are  expressed  in  the  most  simple  style,  without  any  figure  at  all ;  in- 
stances of  which  I  have  before  given.  On  the  other  hand,  a  compo- 
sition may  abound  with  these  studied  ornaments  ;  the  language  may 
be  artful,  splendid,  and  highly  figured,  and  yet  the  composition  be 
on  the  whole  frigid  and  unaffecting.  Not  to  speak  of  sentiment  and 
thought,  which  constitute  the  real  and  lasting  merit  of  any  work,  it 
*he  style  be  stiff  and  affected,  if  it  be  deficient  in  perspicuity  or  pre 


lect.  xviii.]         FIGURATIVE  LANGUAGE.  J. 93 

cision,  or  in  ease  a-nd  neatness,  all  the  figures  that  can  be  employed 
will  never  render  it  agreeable:  they  may  dazzle  a  vulgar,  but  will 
never  please  a  judicious  eye. 

In  the  second  place,  figures,  in  order  to  be  beautiful,  must  always 
rise  naturally  from  the  subject.  I  have  shown  that  all  of  them  aie 
the  language  either  of  imagination,  or  of  passion;  some  of  them 
suggested  by  imagination,  when  it  is  awakened  and  sprightly,  such 
as  metaphors  and  comparisons;  others  by  passion  or  more  heated 
emotion,  such  as  personifications  and  apostrophes.  Of  course,  they 
are  beautiful  then  only,  when  they  are  prompted  by  fancy,  or  by 
passion.  They  must  rise  of  their  own  accord;  they  must  flow 
from  a  mind  warmed  by  the  object  which  it  seeks  to  describe;  we 
should  never  interrupt  the  course  of  thought  to  cast  about  for  figures, 
ff  they  be  sought  after  coolly,  and  fastened  on  as  designed  ornaments, 
they  will  have  a  miserable  effect.  It  is  a  very  erroneous  idea, 
which  many  have  of  the  ornaments  of  style,  as  if  they  were  things 
detached  from  the  subject,  and  that  could  be  stuck  to  it,  like  lace 
upon  a  coat:  this  is  indeed, 

Purpureus  late  qui  splendeat  unus  aut  alter 

Assuitur  pannus.* Ars  Pokt. 

And  it  is  this  false  idea  which  has  often  brought  attention  to  the 
beauties  of  writing  into  disrepute.  Whereas,  the  real  and  proper 
ornaments  of  style  arise  from  sentiment.  They  flow  in  the 
same  stream  with  the  current  of  thought.  A  writer  of  genius 
conceives  his  subject  strongly ;  his  imagination  is  filled  and  im- 
pressed with  it;  and  pours  itself  forth  in  that  figurative  language 
which  imagination  naturally  speaks.  He  puts  on  no  emotion  which 
his  subject  does  not  raise  in  him;  he  speaks  as  he  feels;  but  his 
style  will  be  beautiful,  because  his  feelings  are  lively.  On  occasions, 
when  fancy  is  languid,  or  finds  nothing  to  rouse  it,  we  should  never 
attempt  to  hunt  for  figures.  We  then  work,  as  it  is  said,  '  invita 
Minerva ;'  supposing  figures  invented,  they  will  have  the  appearance 
of  being  forced :  and  in  this  case,  they  had  much  better  be  omit- 
ted. 

In  the  third  place,  even  when  imagination  prompts,  and  the  sub- 
ject naturally  gives  rise  to  figures,  they  must,  however,  not  be  em 
ployed  too  frequently.  In  all  beauty,"  'simplex  munditiis,'  is  a  capi- 
tal quality.  Nothing  derogates  more  from  the  weight  and  dig- 
nity of  any  composition,  than  too  great  attention  to  ornament. 
When  the  ornaments  cost  labour,  that  labour  always  appears ;  though 
they  should  cost  us  none,  still  the  reader  or  hearer  may  be  surfeited 
with  them  ;  and  when  they  come  too  thick,  they  give  the  impression 
of  a  light  and  frothy  genius,  that  evaporates  in  show,  rather  than 
brings  forth  what  is  solid.  The  directions  of  the  ancient  critics,  on 
this  head,  are  full  of  good  sense,  and  deserve  careful  attention 
;  Voluptatibus  maximis/  says  Cicero,  de  Orat.  1.  iii.  'fastidium  fin- 
if.imum  est  in  rebus  omnibus;  quo  hoc  minus  in  oratione  miremui 

*  '  Shreds  of  purple  with  broad  lustre  shine, 
1  Sew'd  on  vour  poem.'  Francis 

2F  25 


V94  FIGURATIVE  LANGUAGE.  ,  [lect.  xvin. 

In  quavel  ex  poetis,  vel  oratoribus  possumus  judicare,  concinnam, 
ornatam,  festivam,  sine  intermissione  quamvis  claris  sit  coloribus 
picta,  vel  poesis,  vel  oratio,  non  posse  in  delectatione  esse  diutur- 
.)i.  Quare,  bene  et  prseclare,  quamvis  nobis  ssepe  dicatur,  belle 
et  festive  nimium  ssepe  nolo.'*  To  the  same  purpose  are  the  excel- 
lent directions  with  which  Quintilian  concludeshis  discourse  concern- 
ing figures,  1.  ix.  c.  3.  'Ego  illud  de  iis  figuris  quae  vere  fiunt, 
adjiciam  breviter,  sicutornant  orationem  opportunae  positae,  ita  inep- 
tissimas  esse  cum  immodice  petuntur.  Sunt,  qui  neglecto  rerum 
pondere  et  viribus  sententiarum,  si  vel  inania  verba  in  hos  modos  de 
pravarunt,  summos  se  judicant  artifices:  ideoque  non  desinunt  eas 
nectere;  quas  sine  sententia  sectare,  tarn  est  ridiculum  quam 
quaerere  habitum  gestumque  sine  corpore.  Ne  hae  quidem  quae  rec 
tae  fiunt,  densandae  sunt  nimis.  Sciendum  imprimis  quid  quisque 
postulet  locus,  quid  persona,  quir,  tempus.  Major  enim  pars  harum 
figurarum  posita  est  in  delectatione.  Ubi  vero,  atrocitate,  invidia, 
miseratione  pugnandum  est;  quis  ferat  verbis  contrapositis,  et  con- 
similibus  et  pariter  cadentibus,  irascer.tem,  flentem,  rogantem? 
Cum  in  his  rebus,  cura  verborum  deroget  affectibus  fidem;  et 
ubicunque  ars  ostentatur,  Veritas  abcsse  videatur.'t  After  these  ju- 
dicious and  useful  observations,  I  have  no  more  to  add,  on  this 
subject,  except  this  admonition : 

In  the  fourth  place,  that,  without  a  genius  for  figurative  language, 
none  should  attempt  it.  Imagination  is  a  power  not  to  be  acquired ; 
it  must  be  derived  from  nature.  Its  redundancies  we  may  prune,  its 
deviations  we  may  correct,  its  sphere  we  may  enlarge;  but  the  fa- 
culty itself  we  cannot  create :  but  all  efforts  towards  a  metaphorical 
ornamented  style,  if  we  are  destitute  of  the  proper  genius  for  it,  will 
prove  awkward  and  disgusting.  Let  us  satisfy  ourselves,  however, 
by  considering,  that  without  this  talent,  or  at  least  with  a  very  small 
measure  of  it,  we  may  both  write  and  speak  to  advantage.     Good 

*«In  all  human  things,  disgust  borders  so  nearly  on  the  most  lively  pleasures 
that  we  need  not  be  surprised  to  find  this  hold  in  eloquence.  From  reading  eithei 
poets  or  orators  we  may  easily  satisfy  ourselves,  that  neither  a  poem  nor  an  ora- 
tion, which,  without  intermission,  is  showy  and  sparkling,  can  please  us  long 
Wherefore,  though  we  may  wish  for  the  frequent  praise  of  having  expressed  our- 
selves well'  and  properly,  we  should  not  covet  repeated  applause,  for  being  bright 
and  splendid.'  ... 

t  '  I  must  add,  concerning  those  figures  which  are  proper  in  themselves, 
that  as  they  beautify  a  composition  when  they  are  seasonably  introduced,  so  they 
deform  it  greatly,  if  too  frequently  sought  after.  There  are  some  who,  neglecting 
strength  of  sentiment  and  weight  of  matter,  if  they  can  only  force  their  empty 
w  ords  into  a  figurative  style,  imagine  themselves  great  writers ;  and  therefore  con- 
tinually string  together  such  ornaments;  which  is  just  as  ridiculous,  where  there 
is  no  sentiment  to  support  them,  as  to  contrive  gestures  and  dresses  for  ivhat  wants 
a  body.  Even  those  figures  which  a  subject  admits,  must  not  come  too  thick 
We  must  1  s-in  with  considering  what  the  occasion,  the  time,  and  the  person  who 
speaks  render  proper.  For  the  object  aimed  at  by  the  greater  part  of  these 
figures  is  entertainment.  But  when  the  subject  becomes  deeply  serious,  and 
«trong  passions  are  to  be  moved,  who  can  bear  the  orator,  who,  in  affected  Ian 
guage  and  balanced  phrases,  endeavours  to  express  wrath,  commiseration,  oi 
earnest  entreaty  ?  On  all  such  occasions,  a  solicitous  attention  to  words  weaken! 
passion;  and  when  so  much  art  is  shown,  Uiere  is  suspected  to  be  little  sin 
oerity.' 


iect.  xviii.]  GENERAL  CHARACTERS  OF  STYLE.        19S 

sense,  clear  ideas,  perspicuity  of  language,  and  proper  arrangement 
of  words  and  thoughts,  will  always  command  attention.  These  are 
indeed  the  foundations  of  all  solid  merit,  both  in  speaking  and  wri- 
ting. Many  subjects  require  nothing  more;  and  those  which  admit 
of  ornament,  admit  it  only  as  a  secondary  requisite.  To  study  and 
to  know  our  own  genius  well ;  to  follow  nature  ;  to  seek  to  improve, 
but  not  to  force  it,  are  directions  which  cannot  be  too  often  given 
to  those  who  desire  to  excel  in  the  liberal  arts. 

When  I  entered  upon  the  consideration  of  style,  I  observed  that 
words  being  the  copies  of  our  ideas,  there  must  always  be  a  very  in- 
timate connexion  between  the  manner  in  which  every  writer  em- 
ploys words,  and  his  manner  of  thinking;  and  that  from  the  pecu- 
liarity of  thought  and  expression  which  belongs  to  him,  there  is  a 
certain  character  imprinted  on  his  style,  which  may  be  denominated 
his  manner;  commonly  expressed  by  such  general  terms,  as  strong, 
weak,  dry,  simple,  affected,  orthelike.  These  distinctions  carry,  in 
general,  some  reference  to  an  author's  manner  of  thinking,  but  re- 
fer chiefly  to  his  mode  of  expression.  They  arise  from  the  whole 
tenour  of  his  language;  and  comprehend  the  effect  produced  by  all 
those  parts  of  style  which  we  have  already  considered ;  the  choice 
which  he  makes  of  single  words  ;  his  arrangement  of  these  in  sen- 
tences; the  degree  of  his  precision;  and  his  embellishment,  by 
means  of  musical  cadence,  figures,  or  other  arts  of  speech.  Of 
such  general  characters  of  style,  therefore,  it  remains  now  to 
speak  as  the  result  of  those  underparts  of  which  I  have  hitherto 
treated. 

That  different  subjects  require  to  be  treated  of  in  different  sorts  of 
style,  is  a  position  so  obvious,  that  I  shall  not  stay  to  illustrate  it. 
Every  one  sees  that  treatises  of  philosophy,  for  instance,  ought  not 
to  be  composed  in  the  same  style  with  orations.  Everyone  sees  also, 
that  different  parts  of  the  same  composition  require  a  variation  in 
the  style  and  manner.  In  a  sermon,  for  instance,  or  any  harangue, 
the  application  or  peroration  admits  more  ornament  and  requires 
more  warmth,  than  the  didactic  part.  But  what  I  mean  at  present 
to  remark  is,  that  amidst  this  variety,  we  still  expect  to  find  in  the 
compositions  of  any  one  man,  some  degree  of  uniformity  or  consist- 
ency with  himself  in  manner ;  we  expect  to  find  some  predominant 
character  of  style  impressed  on  all  his  writings,  which  shall  be  suit- 
ed to,  and  shall  mark  his  particular  genius  and  turn  of  mind.  The 
orations  in  Livy  differ  much  in  style,  as  they  ought  to  do,  from  the 
rest  of  his  history.  The  same  is  the  case  with  those  in  Tacitus.  Yet 
both  in  Livy's  orations,  and  in  those  of  Tacitus,  we  are  able  clearly 
to  trace  the  distinguishing  manner  of  each  historian;  the  magnifi- 
cent fullnessof  the  one,  and  the  sententious  conciseness  of  the  other. 
The  '  Letters  Persanes/  and  '  L'Esprit  des  Loix/  are  the  works  of  the 
same  author.  They  required  very  different  compositions  surely,  and 
accordingly  they  differ  widely;  yet  still  we  see  the  same  hand. 
Wherever  there  is  real  and  native  genius,  it  giv  es  a  determination  to 
one  kind  of  style  rather  than  another.  Where  nothing  of  this  ap- 
pears; where  there  is  no  marked  nor  peculiar  character  in  the  com 


1<J6  CONCISE  AND  [lect.  xviii. 

positions  of  any  author,  we  are  apt  to  infer,  not  without  reason,  that 
he  is  a  vulgar  and  trivial  author,  who  writes  from  imitation,  and  not 
from  the  impulse  of  original  genius.  As  the  most  celebrated  paint- 
ers are  known  by  their  hand,  so  the  best  and  most  original  writers 
are  known  and  distinguished,  throughout  all  their  works,  by  their 
style  and  peculiar  manner.  This  will  be  found  to  hold  almost  with- 
out exception. 

The  ancient  critics  attended  to  these  general  characters  of  style 
*  which  we  are  now  to  consider.  Dionysius  of  Halicarnassus  divides 
them  into  three  kinds;  and  calls  them  the  austere,  the  florid,  and  the 
middle.  By  the  austere,  he  means  a  style  distinguished  for  strength 
and  firmness,  with  a  neglect  of  smoothness  and  ornament ;  for  ex- 
amples of  which,  he  gives  Pindar  and  iEschylus  among  the  poets, 
and  Thucydides  among  the  prose  writers.  By  the  florid,  he  means, 
as  the  name  indicates,  a  style  ornamented,  flowing,  and  sweet;  rest- 
ing more  upon  numbers  and  grace,  than  strength  ;  he  instances  He- 
siod,  Sappho,  Anacreon,  Euripides,  and  principally  Isocrates.  The 
middle  kind  is  the  just  mean  between  these,  and  comprehends  the 
beauties  of  both;  in  which  class  he  places  Homer  and  Sophocles 
among  the  poets;  in  prose,  Herodotus,  Demosthenes,  Plato,  and 
(what  seems  strange)  Aristotle.  This  must  be  a  very  wide  class,  in- 
deed, which  comprehends  Plato  and  Aristotle  under  one  article  as  to 
style.*  Cicero  and  Quintilian  make  also  a  threefold  division  of 
style,  though  with  respect  to  different  qualifies  of  it;  in  which  they 
are  followed  by  most  of  the  modern  writers  on  rhetoric:  the 
simplex,  tenne  or  subtle  ;  ihegrave  or  vehemens  ;  and  the  medium  or 
temperatum  genus  dicendi.  But  these  divisions,  and  the  illustra- 
tions they  give  of  them,  are  so  loose  and  general,  that  they  cannot 
advance  us  much  in  our  ideas  of  style.  I  shall  endeavour  to  be  a 
little  more  particular  in  what  I  have  to  say  on  this  subject. 

One  of  the  first  and  most  obvious  distinctions  of  the  different  kinds 
of  style,  is  what  arises  from  an  auth  jr's  spreading  out  his  thoughts 
more  or  less.  This  distinction  forms  what  are  called  the  diffuse 
and  the  concise  styles.  A  concise  writer  compresses  his  thoughts 
into  the  fewest  possible  words ;  he  seeks  to  employ  none  but  such  as 
are  most  expressive;  he  lops  off  as  redundant,  every  expression 
which  does  not  add  something  material  to  the  sense.  Ornament  he 
does  not  reject;  he  may  be  lively  and  figured  ;  but  his  ornament  is 
intended  for  the  sake  of  force,  rather  than  srrace.  He  never  gives 
you  the  same  thought  twice.  He  places  it  in  the  light  which  appears 
to  him  the  most  striking;  but  if  you  do  not  apprehend  it  well  in  that 
light,  you  need  not  expect  to  find  it  in  any  other.  His  sentences  are 
arranged  with  compactness  and  strength,  rather  than  with  cadence 
and  harmony.  The  utmost  precision  is  studied  in  them;  and  thev 
are  commonly  designed  to  suggest  more  to  the  reader's  imagination 
than  they  directly  express. 

A  diffuse  writer  unfolds  his  thoughtfully.    He  places  it  in  a  variety 
of  lights,  and  gives  the  reader  every  possible  assistance  for  understand- 

*  De  Compositione  Verborum,  cap.  25 


lect.  xviii.]  DIFF'JSE  STYLE.  197 

ing  it  completely.  He  is  not  very  careful  to  express  it  at  first  in  its 
full  strength,  because  he  is  to  repeat  the  impression ;  and  what  he 
wants  in  strength,  he  proposes  to  supply  by  copiousness.  Writers  of 
this  character  generally  love  magnificence  and  amplification.  Their 
periods  naturally  run  out  into  some  length,  and  having  room  for  orna- 
ment of  every  kind,  they  admit  it  freely. 

Each  of  these  manners  has  its  peculiar  advantages;  and  each 
becomes  faulty  when  carried  to  the  extreme.  The  extreme  of 
conciseness  becomes  abrupt  and  obscure;  it  is  apt  also  to  lead  into 
a  style  too  pointed,  and  bordering  on  the  epigrammatic.  The  ex- 
treme of  diffuseness  becomes  weak  and  languid,  and  tires  *he  reader. 
However,  to  one  or  other  of  these  two  manners,  a  writer  may  lean 
according  as  his  genius  prompts  him;  and  under  the  general  cha- 
racter of  a  concise,  or  of  a  more  open  and  diffuse  style,  may  pos 
sess  much  beauty  in  his  composition. 

For  illustrations  of  these  general  characters,  I  can  only  refer  to 
the  writers  who  are  examples  of  them.  It  is  not  so  much  from 
detached  passages,  such  as  I  was  wont  formerly  to  quote  for  instan- 
ces, as  from  the  current  of  an  author's  style,  that  we  are  to  collect 
the  idea  of  a  formed  manner  of  writing.  The  two  most  remarkable 
examples  that  I  know,  of  conciseness  carried  as  far  as  propriety 
will  allow,  perhaps  in  some  cases  farther,  are  Tacitus  the  historian, 
and  the  President  Montesquieu  in  'L'Espritde  Loix.'  Aristotle 
too  holds  an  eminent  rank  among  didactic  writers  for  his  brevity. 
Perhaps  no  writer  in  the  world  was  ever  so  frugal  of  his  words  as 
Aristotle;  but  this  frugality  of  expression  frequently  darkens  his 
meaning.  Of  a  beautiful  and  magnificent  diffuseness,  Cicero  is,  be- 
yond doubt,  the  most  illustrious  instance  that  can  be  given.  Ad- 
dison also,  and  Sir  William  Temple,  come  in  some  degree  under 
this  class. 

In  judging  when  it  is  proper  to  lean  to  the  concise,  and  when 
to  the  diffuse  manner,  we  must  be  directed  by  the  nature  of  the 
composition.  Discourses  that  are  to  be  spoken,  require  a  more 
copious  style,  than  books  that  are  to  be  read.  When  the  whole 
meaning  must  be  catched  from  the  mouth  of  the  speaker,  without 
the  advantage  which  books  afford  af  pausing  at  pleasure,  and  re- 
viewing what  appears  obscure,  great  conciseness  is  always  to  be 
avoided.  We  should  never  presume  too  much  on  the  quickness  of  our 
hearer's  understanding;  but  our  style  ought  to  be  such,  that  the  bulk 
of  men  can  go  along  with  us  easily,  and  without  effort.  A  flowing  co- 
pious style,  therefore,  is  required  in  all  public  speakers;  guarding, 
at  the  same  time,  against  such  a  degree  of  diffusion,  as  renders 
them  languid  and  tiresome;  which  will  always  prove  the  case,  when 
they  inculcate  too  much,  and  present  the  same  thought  under  too 
many  different  views. 

In  written  compositions,  a  certain  degree  of  conciseness  posses- 
ses great  advantages.  It  is  more  lively;  keeps  up  attention  ;  makes 
a  brisker  and  stronger  impression;  and  gratifies  the  mind  by  supplv- 
ing  more  exei  cise  to  a  reader's  own  thought.     A  sentiment,  which 


198  CONCISE  AND  DIFFUSE  STYLE,    [lect.  xvni 

expressed  diffusely,  will  barely  be  admitted  to  be  just;  expressed 
v:oncisoly,  will  be  admiied  as  spirited.  Description,  when  we  want 
to  have  it  vivid  and  animated,  should  be  in  a  concise  strain.  This 
is  different  from  the  common  opinion;  most  persons  being  ready  to 
suppose,  that  upon  description  a  writer  may  dwell  more  safely  thai* 
upon  other  things,  and  that  by  a  full  and  extended  style,  it  is  render- 
ed more  rich  and  expressive.  I  apprehend,  on  the  contrary,  that 
a  diffuse  manner  generally  weakens  it.  Any  redundant  words  or 
circumstances  encumber  the  fancy,  and  make  the  object  we  pre- 
sent to  it,  appear  confused  and  indistinct.  Accordingly,  the  most 
masterly  r'escribers,  Homer,  Tacitus,  Milton,  are  almost  always 
concise  in  their  descriptions.  They  show  us  more  of  an  object  at 
one  glance,  than  a  feeble  diffuse  writer  can  show,  by  turning  it 
round  and  round  in  a  variety  of  lights.  The  strength  and  vivacity 
of  description,  whether  in  prose  or  poetry,  depend  much  more  upon 
the  happy  choice  of  one  or  two  striking  circumstances,than  upon  the 
multiplication  of  them. 

Addresses  to  the  passions,  likewise,  ought  to  be  in  the  concise, 
rather  than  in  the  diffuse  manner.  In  these  it  is  dangerous  to  be  dif- 
fuse, because  it  is  very  difficult  to  support  proper  warmth  for  any 
length  of  time.  When  we  become  prolix,  we  are  always  in  hazard 
of  cooling  the  reader.  The  heart,  too,  and  the  fancy,  run  fast; 
and  if  once  we  can  put  them  in  motion,  they  supply  many  par 
ticulars  to  greater  advantage  than  an  author  can  display  them. 
The  case  is  different  when  we  address  ourselves  to  the  understand- 
ing; as  in  all  matters  of  reasoning,  explication,  and  instruction. 
There  I  would  prefer  a  more  free  and  diffuse  manner.  When  you 
are  to  strike  the  fancy,  or  to  move  the  heart,  be  concise;  when  you 
are  to  inform  the  understanding,  which  moves  more  slowly,  and  re- 
quires the  assistance  of  a  guide,  it  is  better  to  be  full.  Historical 
narration  may  be  beautiful,  either  in  a  concise  or  a  diffuse  manner, 
according  to  the  writer's  genius.  Livy  and  Herodotus  are  diffuse; 
Thucydides  and  Sallust  are  succinct;  yet  all  of  them  are  agreeable. 
I  observed  that  a  diffuse  style  generally  abounds  in  long  periods ;  and 
a  concise  writer,  it  is  certain,  will  often  employ  short  sentences. 
It  is  not,  however,  to  be  inferred  from  this,  that  long  or  short  sen- 
tences are  fully  characteristical  of  the  one  or  the  other  manner.  It 
is  very  possible  for  one  to  compose  always  in  short  sentences,  and  to 
be  withal  extremely  diffuse,  if  a  small  measure  of  sentiment  be 
spread  through  many  of  these  sentences.  Seneca  is  a  remarkable 
example.  By  the  shortness  and  quaintness  of  his  sentences,  he 
may  appear  at  first  view  very  concise ;  yet  he  is  far  from  being  so. 
He  transfigures  the  same  thought  into  many  different  forms.  He 
makes  it  pass  for  a  new  one,  only  by  giving  it  a  new  turn.  So  also, 
most  of  the  French  writers  compose  in  short  sentences,  though  their 
style  in  general  is  not  concise ;  commonly  less  so  than  the  bulk  of 
English  writers,  whose  sentences  are  much  longer.  A  French  au- 
thor  breaks  clown  into  two  or  three  sentences,  that  portion  of  thought 
Much  an  English  author  crowds  into  one.     The  direct  effect  of  short 


lect   xvni.]     NERVOUS,  DRY,  AND  FEEBLE.  199 

sentences,  is  to  render  the  style  brisk  and  lively,  but  not  a'ways  con- 
cise. By  the  quick  successive  impulses  which  they  make  on  the 
mind,  they  keep  it  awake ;  and  give  to  composition  more  of  a 
spirited  character.  Long  periods,  like  Lord  Clarendon's,  are  grave 
and  stately:  but  like  all  grave  things,  they  are  in  hazard  of  be- 
coming dull.  An  intermixture  of  long  and  short  ones  is  requisite, 
when  we  would  support  solemnity,  together  with  vivacity,  leaning 
more  to  the  one  or  the  other,  according  as  propriety  requires  that 
the  solemn  or  the  sprightly  should  be  predominant  in  our  composi- 
tion. But  of  long  and  short  sentences,  I  had  occasion  formerly  to 
treat,  under  the  head  of  the  construction  of  periods. 

The  nervous  and  the  feeble,  are  generally  held  to  be  characters 
of  style,  of  the  same  import  with  the  concise  and  the  diffuse.  They 
do  indeed  very  often  coincide.  Diffuse  writers  have,  for  the  most 
part,  some  degree  of  feebleness ;  and  nervous  writers  will  generally 
be  inclined  to  a  concise  expression.  This,  however,  does  not  al- 
ways hold  ;  and  there  are  instances  of  writers,  who,  in  the  midst  of 
a  full  and  ample  style,  have  maintained  a  great  degree  of  strength. 
Livy  is  an  example ;  and  in  the  English  language  Dr.  Barrow. 
Barrow's  style  has  many  faults.  It  is  unequal,  incorrect,  and  redun- 
dant; but  withal,  for  force  and  expressiveness,  uncommonly  distin- 
guished. On  every  subject,  he  multiplies  words  with  an  overflow- 
ing copiousness  :  but  it  is  always  a  torrent  of  strong  ideas  and  signi- 
ficant expressions  which  he  pours  forth.  Indeed,  the  foundations  of 
a  nervous  or  a  weak  style  are  laid  in  an  author's  manner  of  thinking. 
If  he  conceives  an-object  strongly,  he  will  express  it  with  energy; 
but  if  he  has  only  an  indistinct  view  of  his  subject ;  if  his  ideas  be 
loose  and  wavering ;  if  his  genius  be  such,  or,  at  the  time  of  his  wri- 
ting, so  carelessly  exerted,  that  he  has  no  firm  hold  of  the  concep- 
tion which  he  would  communicate  to  us;  the  marks  of  all  this  will 
clearly  appear  in  his  style.  Several  unmeaning  words  and  loose  epi- 
thets will  be  found :  his  expressions  will  be  vague  and  general ;  his 
arrangement  indistinct  and  feeble;  we  shall  conceive  somewhat  of 
his  meaning,  but  our  conception  will  be  faint.  Whereas  a  nervous 
writer,  whether  he  employs  an  extended  or  a  concise  style,  gives  us 
always  a  strong  impression  of  his  meaning;  his  mind  is  full  of  his 
subject,  and  his  words  are  all  expressive;  every  phrase  and  every 
figure  which  he  uses,  tends  to  render  the  picture,  which  he  would 
set  before  us,  more  lively  and  complete. 

I  observed  under  the  head  of  diffuse  and  concise  style,  that  an 
author  might  lean  either  to  the  one  or  to  the  other,  and  yet  be  beau- 
tiful. This  is  not  the  case  with  respect  to  the  nervous  and  th^  feeble. 
Every  author,  in  every  composition,  ought  to  study  to  express  him- 
self with  some  strength,  and,  in  proportion  as  he  approaches  to  the 
feeble,  he  becomes  a  bad  writer.  In  all  kinds  of  writing,  however, 
the  same  degree  of  strength  is  not  demanded.  But  the  more  grave 
and  weighty  any  composition  is,  the  more  should  a  character  of 
strength  predominate  in  the  style.  Hence  in  history,  philosophy 
and  solemn  discourses,  it  is  expected  most.  One  of  the  most  com- 
plete models  of  a  nervous  style,  is  Demosthenes  in  his  orations. 


200  NERVOUS  AND  FEEBLE  STYLE,   [lect  xvm 

As  every  good  quality  in  style  has  an  extreme,  when  pursued   ^ 
which  it  becomes  faulty,  this  holds  of  the  nervous  style  as  will  as 
others.     Too  great  a  study  of  strength,  to  the  neglect  of  the  other 
qualities  of  style,  is  found  to  betray  writers  into  a  harsh  manner. 
Harshness  arises  from  unusual  words,  from  forced  inversions  in  the 
construction  of  a  sentence,  and  too  much  neglect  of  smoothness  and 
ease.     This  is  reckoned  the  fault  of  some  of  our  earliest  classics  in 
the  English  language;  such  as  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  Sir  Francis  Ba- 
con, Hooker,  Chillingworth,  Milton  in  his  prose  works,  Harrington, 
Cudvvorth,  and  other  writers  of  considerable  note  in  the  days  of 
Queen  Elizabeth,  James  I.  and  Charles  I.    These  writers  had  nerves 
and  strength  in  a  high  degree,  and  are  to  this  day  eminent  for  that 
quality  in  style.     But  the  language  in  their  hands  was  exceedingly 
different  from  what  it  is  now,  and  was  indeed  entirely  formed  upon 
*he  idiom  and  construction  of  the  Latin  in  the  arrangement  of  sen- 
tences.    Hooker,  for  instance,  begins  the  preface  to  his  celebrated 
work  of  Ecclesiastical  Polity,  with  the  following  sentence: '  Though 
for  no  other  cause,  yet  for  this,  that  posterity  may  know  we  have 
not  loosely,  through  silence,  permitted  things  to  pass  away  as  in  a 
dream,  there  shall  be,  for  men's  information,  extant  this  much,  con- 
cerning the  present  state  of  the  church  of  God  established  amongst 
us,  and  their  careful  endeavours  which  would  have  upheld  the  same.' 
Such  a  sentence  now  sounds  harsh  in  our  ears.     Yet  some  advan- 
tages certainly  attended  this  sort  of  style ;  and  whether  we  have 
gained   or  lost,   upon  the  whole,  by  departing  from  it,  may  bear 
a  question.     By  the  freedom  of  arrangement    which  it  permitted;, 
it  rendered  the  language  susceptible  of  more  strength,  of  more 
variety  of  collocation,  and  more  harmony  of  period.    But  however 
this  be,   such  a  style   is  now  obsolete ;    and   no  modern   writer 
could  adopt  it  without  the  censure  of  harshness  and  affectation. 
The  present  form  which  the  language  has  assumed,  has,  in  some 
measure,  sacrificed  the  study  of  strength  to  that  of  perspicuity 
and  ease.     Our  arrangement  of  words  has  become  less   forcible, 
perhaps,  but  more  plain  and  natural :  and  this  is  now  understood  to 
be  the  genius  of  our  language. 

The  restoration  of  King  Charles  II.  seems  to  be  the  sera  of  the 
formation  of  our  present  style.  Lord  Clarendon  was  one  of  the  first 
who  laid  aside  those  frequent  inversions  which  prevailed  among 
writers  of  the  former  age.  After  him,  Sir  William  Temple  polished 
the  language  still  more.  But  the  author,  who  by  the  number  and  re- 
putation of  his  works,  formed  it  more  than  any  one,  into  its  present 
state,  is  Dryden.  Dryden  began  to  write  at  the  restoration,  and 
continued  long  an  author  both  in  poetry  and  prose.  He  had  made 
the  language  his  study ;  and  though  he  wrote  hastily,  and  often  in- 
correctly, and  his  style  is  not  free  from  faults,  yet  there  is  a  richness 
in  his  diction,  a  copiousness,  ease,  and  variety  in  his  expression, 
which  has  not  been  surpassed  by  any  who  have  come  after  him  * 

*  Dr  Johnson,  in  his  life  of  Dryden,  gives  the  following  character  of  his  prose 
rtrlft:  'His  prefaces  have  not  the  formality  of  a  settled  style,  in  which  the  firsa 
tiaJf  of  the  sentence   betrays  the  other.     The  clauses  are  never  balanced,   nor  th* 


%ect.  xvni.]         DRY  AND  PLAIN  STYLE.  201 

Since  his  time,  considerable  attention  has  been  paid  to  purity  and 
elegance  of  style:  but  it  is  elegance,  rather  than  stiength,  that  forms 
the  distinguishing  quality  of  most  of  tbr  good  English  writers. 
Some  of  them  compose  in  a  more  manly  and  ner/iudd  manner  than 
others;  but,  whether  it  be  from  the  genius  of  our  J^guage,  or  from 
whatever  other  cause,  it  appears  to  me,  that  w«j  die  far  from  the 
strength  of  several  of  the  Greek  and  Roman  authors. 

Hitherto  we  have  considered  style  under  those  characters  that 
respect  its  expressiveness  of  an  author's  meaning.  Let  us  now  pro- 
ceed to  consider  it  in  another  view;  with  respect  to  the  degree  or 
ornament  employed  to  beautify  it.  Here,  the  st>ie  of  different 
authors  seems  to  rise,  in  the  following  gradation;  a  dry,  a  plain,  a 
neat,  an  elegant,  a  flowery  manner.     Of  each  of  theo   in  their  order : 

First,  a  dry  manner.     This  excludes  all  ornament  of  every  kind. 
Content  with  being  understood,  it  has  not  the  least  aim  to  please 
either  the  fancy  cr  the  ear.     This  is  tolerable  only  in  pure  didactic 
writing ;  and  even  there,  to  make  us  bear  it,  great  weight  and  solidi- 
ty of  matter  is  requisite,   and  entire  perspicuity  of  language.     Aris 
totle  is  the  complete  example  of  a  dry  style.     Never,  perhaps,  w;  s 
there  any  author  who  adhered  so  rigidly  to  the  strictness  of  a  dida«  - 
tic  manner,  throughout  all  his  writings,  and  conveyed  so  much  in- 
struction without  the  least  approach  to  ornament.     With  the  mc    r. 
profound  genius,  and  extensive  views,  he  writes  like  a  pure  inteh 
gence,  who  addresses  himself  solely  to  the  understanding,  withot 
making  any  use  of  the  channel  of  the  imagination.     But  this  is 
manner  which  deserves   not  to  be   imitated.     For,  although   the 
goodness  of  the  matter  may  compensate  the  dryness  or  harshness  ol 
the  style,  yet  is  that  dryness  a  considerable  defect;   as  it  fatigues 
attention,  and  conveys  our  sentiments  with  disadvantage  to  the  rea- 
der or  hearer. 

A  plain  style  rises  one  degree  above  a  dry  one.  A  writei  of 
this  character  employs  very  little  ornament  of  any  kind,  and  rests, 
almost,  entirely  upon  his  sense.  But,  if  he  is  at  no  pains  to  engage 
us  by  the  employment  of  figures,  musical  arrangement,  or  any  other 
art  of  writing,  he  studies,  however,  to  avoid  disgusting  us  like  a  dry 
and  a  harsh  writer.  Besides  perspicuity,  he  pursues  propriety,  puri- 
ty, and  precision,  in  his  language  ;  which  form  one  degree,  and  no 
inconsiderable  one,  of  beauty.  Liveliness,  too,  and  force,  may  be 
consistent  with  a  very  plain  style;  and  therefore,  such  an  author,  il 
his  sentiments  be  good,  may  be  abundantly  agreeable.  The  differ- 
ence between  a  dry  and  a  plain  writer,  is,  that  the  former  is  incapa- 
ble of  ornament,  and  seems  not  to  know  what  it  is ;  the  latter  seeks 
not  after  it.  He  gives  us  his  meaning,  in  good  language,  distinct 
and  pure ;  any  further  ornament,  he  gives  himself  no  trouble  about ; 

periods  modelled ;  every  word  seems  to  drop  by  chance,  though  it  falls  into  its 
proper  place.  Nothing  is  cold  or  languid  ;  the  whole  is  airy,  animated  and  vigor- 
ous ;  what  is  little  is  gay,  what  is  great  is  splendid.  Though  all  is  easy,  nothing 
is  feeble;  though  all  seems  jareless,  there  is  nothing  harsh;  and  though,  since 
bis  earlier  works  more  than  a  century  has  passed,  they  have  nothing  yet  uncouth 
or  obsolt-ie.' 

2G  26 


202  NEAT  STYLE.  [lect  xvnr 

either,  because  he  thinks  it  unnecessary  to  his  subject;  or,  because 
nis  genius  does  not  lead  him  to  delight  in  it;  or,  because  it  lead* 
him  to  despise  it.* 

This  last  was  the  case  with  Dean  Swift,  who  may  be  placed  at  the 
head  of  those  that  have  employed  the  plain  style.  Few  writers 
have  discovered  more  capacity.  He  treats  every  subject  which  he 
handles,  whether  serious  or  ludicrous,  in  a  masterly  manner.  He 
knew,  almost  beyond  any  man,  the  purity,  the  extent,  the  precision 
of  the  English  language;  and,  therefore,  to  such  as  wish  to  attain  a 
pure  and  correct  style,  he  is  one  of  the  most  useful  models.  But 
we  must  not  look  for  much  ornament  and  grace  in  his  language. 
His  haughty  and  morose  genius,  made  him  despise  any  embellish- 
ment of  this  kind  as  beneath  his  dignity.  He  delivers  his  sentiments 
in  a  plain,  downright,  positive  manner,  like  one  who  is  sure  he  is  in 
the  right;  and  is  very  indifferent  whether  you  be  pleased  or  not. 
His  sentences  are  commonly  negligently  arranged ;  distinctly  enough 
as  to  the  sense;  but,  without  any  regard  to  smoothness  of  sound; 
often  without  much  regard  to  compactness,  or  elegance.  If  a  me- 
taphor, or  any  other  figure,  chanced  to  render  his  satire  more  poign- 
ant, he  would,  perhaps,  vouchsafe  to  adopt  it,  when  it  came  in  his 
way;  but  if  it  tended  only  to  embellish  and  illustrate,  he  would 
rather  throw  it  aside.  Hence,  in  his  serious  pieces,  his  style  often 
borders  upon  the  dry  and  unpleasing;  in  his  humorous  ones,  the 
plainness  of  his  manner  sets  off  his  wit  to  the  highest  advantage. 
There  is  no  froth  nor  affectation  in  it;  it  flows  without  any  studied 
preparation  ;  and  while  he  hardly  appears  to  smile  himself,  he  makes 
his  reader  laugh  heartily.  To  a  writer  of  such  a  genius  as  Dean 
Swift,  the  plain  style  was  most  admirably  fitted.  Among  our  phi- 
losophical writers,  Mr.  Locke  comes  under  this  class;  perspicuous 
and  pure,  but  almost  without  any  ornament  whatever.  In  works 
which  admit  or  require  ever  so  much  ornament,  there  are  parts 
where  the  plain  manner  ought  to  predominate.  But  we  must  re- 
member, that  when  this  is  the  character  which  a  writer  affects 
Throughout  his  whole  composition,  great  weight  of  matter  and  great 
force  of  sentiment  are  required,  in  order  to  keep  up  the  reader's 
attention,  and  prevent  him  from  becoming  tired  of  the  author. 

What  is  called  a  neat  style  comes  next  in  order;  and  here  we  are 
got  into  the  region  of  ornament;  but  that  ornament,  not  of  the  high- 
est or  most  sparkling  kind.  A  writer  of  this  character  shows,  that 
he  does  not  despise  the  beauty  of  language.  It  is  an  object  of  his 
attention.  But  his  attention  is  shown  in  the  choice  of  words,  and 
in  a  graceful  collocation  of  them,  rather  than  in  any  high  efforts  of 
imagination  or  eloquence.  His  sentences  are  always  clean,  and 
free  from  the  encumbrance  of  superfluous  words;  of  a  moderate 
length;  rather  inclining  to  brevity,  than  a  swelling  structure;  clos- 

*  On  this  head,  of  the  general  characters  of  style,  particularly  the  plain  and 
the  simple,  and  the  characters  of  those  English  authors  who  are  classed  under 
them,  in  this,  and  the  folk  wing  lecture,  several  ideas  have  been  taken  from  t 
manuscript  treatise  on  rhetoric,  part  of  which  was  shown  to  me,  many  years  ago. 
bv  the  learned  and  ingenious  Ruthor,  Dr.  Adam  Smith  ;  and  which,  it  is  hoped, 
will  be  given  by  him  to  the  public. 


lect.  xviii.]  ELEGANT  STYLE.  203 

mg  with  propriety;  without  any  tails  or  adjections  dragging  after 
the  proper  close.  His  cadence  is  varied;  but  not  of  the  studied 
musical  kind.  His  figures,  if  he  uses  any,  are  short  and  correct,  ra- 
ther than  bold  and  glowing.  Such  a  style  as  this  may  be  attained 
by  a  writer  who  has  no  great  powers  of  fancy  or  genius ;  by  industry 
merely,  and  careful  attention  to  the  rules  of  writing,  and  it  is  a  style 
always  agreeable.  It  imprints  a  character  of  moderate  elevation  on  our 
composition,  and  carries  a  decent  degree  of  ornament,  which  is  not 
unsuitable  to  any  subject  whatever.  A  familiar  letter,  or  a  law  paper, 
on  the  driest  subject,  may  be  written  with  neatness ;  and  a  sermon, 
or  a  philosophical  treatise,  in  a  neat  style,  will  be  read  with  pleasure. 

An  elegant  style  is  a  character,  expressing  a  higher  degree  of  or- 
nament than  a  neat  one;  and  indeed,  is  the  term  usually  applied  to 
style,  when  possessing  all  the  virtues  of  ornament,  without  any  of 
its  excesses  or  defects.  From  what  has  been  formerly  delivered,  it 
will  easily  be  understood,  that  complete  elegance  implies  great  per- 
spicuity and  propriety;  purity  in  the  choice  of  words,  and  care  and 
dexterity  in  their  harmonious  and  happy  arrangement.  It  implies 
farther,  the  grace  and  beauty  of  imagination  spread  over  style,  as 
far  as  the  subject  admits  it;  and  all  the  illustration  which  figurative 
language  adds,  when  properly  employed.  In  a  word,  an  elegant 
writer  is  one  who  pleases  the  fancy  and  the  ear,  while  he  informs 
the  understanding:  and  who  gives  us  his  ideas  clothed  with  all  the 
beauty  of  expression,  but  not  overcharged  with  any  of  its  misplaced 
finery.  In  this  class,  therefore,  we  place  only  the  first  rate  writers  in 
the  language;  such  as  Addison,  Dryden,  Pope,  Temple,  Boling- 
broke,  Atterbury,  and  a  few  more:  writers  who  differ  widely  from 
one  another  in  many  of  the  attributes  of  style,  but  whom  we  now 
class  together,  under  the  denomination  of  elegant,  as,  in  the  scale 
of  ornament,  possessing  nearly  the  same  place. 

When  the  ornaments  applied  to  style,  are  too  rich  and  gaudy  in 
proportion  to  the  subject;  when  they  return  upon  us  too  fast,  and 
strike  us  either  with  a  dazzling  lustre,  or  a  false  brilliancy,  this  forms 
what  is  called  a  florid  style ;  a  term  commonly  used  to  signify  the 
excess  of  ornament.  In  a  young  composer  this  is  very  pardonable. 
Perhaps  it  is  even  a  promising  symptom  in  young  people,  that  their 
style  should  incline  to  the  florid  and  luxuriant;  '  Volo  se  efferat  in 
adolescente  fsecunditas,'  says  Quintilian,  'multum  inde  decoquent 
mini,  multum  ratio  limabit,  aliquid  velut  usu  ipso  deteretur;  sit 
modo  unde  excidi  possit  quid  et  exculpi.  Audeat  haec  astas  plura, 
et  inveniat  et  inventis  gaudeat;  sint  licet  ilia  non  satis  interim  sicca 
et  severa.  Facile  remedium  est  ubertatis:  sterilia  nullo  labore  vin- 
cuntur.'*     But,  although  the  florid  style  may  be  allowed  to  youth, 


*  '  In  youth,  I  wish  to  see  luxuriancy  of  fancy  appear.  Much  of  it  will  be  dimin 
ished  by  years ;  much  will  be  corrected  by  ripening  judgment ;  some  of  it,  by  the  mers 
practice  of  composition,  will  be  worn  away.  Let  there  be  only  sufficient  matter,  at 
first,  that  can  bear  some  pruning  and  lopping  off.  At  this  time  of  life,  let  genius  be 
bold  and  inventive,  and  pride  itself  in  its  efforts,  though  these  should  not,  as  yet,be  cor 
rert,     Luxuriancy  can  easily  be  cured;  but  for  barrenness  there  is  no  remedy.' 


804  FLORID  STYLE.  [lect.  xvm 

in  their  first  essays,  it  must  not  receive  the  same  indulgence  from 
writers  of  maturer  years.  It  is  to  be  expected,  that  judgment,  as  it 
ripens,  should  chasten  imagination,  and  reject  as  juvenile  all  such 
ornaments  as  are  redundant,  unsuitable  to  the  subject,  or  not  condu- 
cive to  illustrate  it.  Nothing  can  be  more  contemptible  than  that  tinsel 
splendour  of  language,  which  some  writers  perpetually  affect.  It  were 
well,  if  this  could  be  ascribed  to  the  real  overflowing  of  a  rich  ima- 
gination. We  should  then  have  something  to  amujse  us,  at  least,  if 
we  found  little  to  instruct  us.  But  the  worst  is,  that  with  those  frothy 
writers,  it  is  a  luxuriancy  of  words,  not  of  fancy.  We  see  a  laboured 
attempt  to  rise  to  a  splendour  of  composition,  of  which  they  have 
formed  to  themselves  some  loose  idea ;  but  having  no  strength  of  genius 
for  attaining  it,  they  endeavour  to  supply  the  defect  by  poetical  words, 
by  cold  exclamations,  by  common-place  figures,  and  every  thing  that 
has  the  appearance  of  pomp  and  magnificence.  It  has  escaped  these 
writers,  that  sobriety  in  ornament  is  one  great  secret  for  rendering  it 
pleasing ;  and  that  without  a  foundation  of  good  sense  and  solid 
thought,  the  most  florid  style  is  but  a  childish  imposition  on  the  pub- 
lic. The  public,  however,  are  but  too  apt  to  be  so  imposed  on  ;  at 
least,  the  mob  of  readers,  who  are  very  ready  to  be  caught,  at  first, 
with  whatever  is  dazzling  and  gaudy. 

I  cannot  help  thinking,  that  it  reflects  more  honour  on  the  religious 
turn,  and  good  dispositions  of  the  present  age,  than  on  the  public  taste, 
that  Mr.  Hervey's  Meditations  have  had  so  great  a  currency.  The 
pious  and  benevolent  heart  which  is  always  displayed  in  them,  and 
the  lively  fancy  which,  on  some  occasions,  appears,  justly  merits  ap- 
plause :  but  the  perpetual  glitter  of  expression,  the  swoln  imagery, 
and  strained  description  which  abound  in  them,  are  ornaments  of  a 
false  kind.  I  would,  therefore,  advise  students  of  oratory  to  imitate 
Mr.  Hervey's  piety  rather  than  his  style :  and,  in  all  compositions  of  a 
serious  kind,  to  turn  their  attention,  as  Mr.  Pope  says,  '  from  sounds 
to  things,  from  fancy  to  the  heart.'  Admonitions  of  this  kind,  I  have 
already  had  occasion  to  give,  and  may  hereafter  repeat  them  ;  as  I 
conceive  nothing  more  incumbent  on  me  in  this  course  of  lectures, 
than  to  take  every  opportunity  of  cautioning  my  readers  against  the 
affected  and  frivolous  use  of  ornament :  and  instead  of  that  slight  and 
superficial  taste  in  writing,  which  I  apprehend  to  be  at  present  too 
fashionable,  to  introduce,  as  far  as  my  endeavours  can  avail,  a  taste 
for  more  solid  thought,  and  more  manly  simplicity  in  style. 

QUESTIONS. 


Having  treated  at  considerable 
length  of  the  figures  of  speech,  before 
finally  dismissing  this  subject,  what  does 
our  author  think  incumbent  on  him  ? 
Though  these  have,  in  part,  been  anti- 
cipated, yet,  what  may  be  of  use  ;  and 
why?  With  repeating  what  observa- 
tion, does  our  author  begin  ?  Instances 
of  what,  have  already  been  given  ?  On 


the  other  hand,  what  is  remarked?  Flow 
is  this  illustrated  ?  In  the  second  place 
that  ficrures  be  beautiful,  what  is  requi 
site?  What  has  been  shown?  When 
only,  therefore,  are  they  beautiful;  and 
what  remark  follows?  When  will  thev 
have  a  miserable  effect ;  and  what  is  a 
very  erroneous  idea?  This  i-  indeed, 
what  ?  What  has  often  been  the  eriecl 


LEtrT    XV in  ] 


QUESTIONS. 


204  a 


of  this  false  idea  ?  From  what  does  the 
~eal  and  proper  ornaments  of  style  arise ; 
and  how  do  they  flow  ?  Of  a  writer  of 
genius,  what  is  remarked  ?  On  what  oc- 
casions should  we  never  attempt  to  hunt 
for  figures ;  and  why  ?  What  is  the  third 
direction  given  concerning  the  use  of 
figures ;  and  why  ?  What  is  the  effect 
on  composition  of  too  great  attention  to 
ornament ;  and  what  remark  follows  ? 
What  is  said  of  the  direction  of  the  an- 
cient critics  on  this  head  ?  What  says 
Cicero?  With  what  direction  doesQuin- 
tilian  conclude  his  discourse  concerning 
them  ?  On  the  uce  of  figurative  lan- 
guage, what  is  the  fourth  direction  ?  Of 
imagination,  what  is  observed  ?  What 
improvement  may  it  derive  from  culti- 
vation ;  but  what  will  prove  disgusting? 
With  what  consideration  should  we  sa- 
tisfy ourselves?  What  will  always  com- 
mand attention  ;  and  of  what  are  they 
the  foundation  ?  What  remark  follows? 
What  directions  cannot  be  too  often 
given  to. those  who  wish  to  excel  in  the 
liberal  arts?  When  our  author  entered 
upon  the  consideration  of  style,  what 
did  he  observe  ?  To  what  do  these  dis- 
tinctions, in  genera],  carry  some  refe- 
rence ;  but  refer  chiefly  to  what?  From 
what  do  they  arise  ;  and  what  do  they 
comprehend  ?  Of  what  does  it  remain 
now  to  speak  ?  Of  the  style  necessary 
for  different  subjects,  what  is  observed? 
How  is  this  illustrated  from  philosophi- 
cal writings,  from  orations,  and  from 
the  different  parts  of  a  sermon?  But 
what  does  our  author  at  present  mean 
to  remark  ?  How  is  this  remark  illus- 
trated from  the  writings  of  Livy,  and 
of"  Tacitus?  How  is  this  further  illus- 
trated ?  Wherever  there  is  real  and  na- 
tive genius,  what  is  its  effect  ?  Where 
nothing  of  this  appears,  what  are  we 
apt  to  infer  ?  How  is  this  illustrated  ? 
Among  the  ancients,  how  did  Dionysi- 
nsof  Halicarnassus,  divide  these  gene- 
ral characters  of  style?  By  the  austere, 
what  does  he  mean  ;  and  what  exam- 
pi  3s  are  given?  AVhat  does  he  mean  by 
the  florid  ?  Whom  does  he  instance  as 
writers  of  this  character  ?  What  is  the 
middle  kind  ;  what  does  it  comprehend; 
and  in  this  class  who  are  placed?  Of 
this  last  class,  what  is  observed  ;  and 
why  ?  Of  Cicero,  and  Quintilian's  di- 
vision of  style,  what  does  our  author 
remark  ;  and  why  does  he  not  dwell  on 
k 7  From  what  does  one  of  the  most 


obvious  distinctions  of  the  different 
kinds  of  style  arise,  and  what  does 
form  ?  Of  a  concise  writer,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  How  does  he  regard  ornament? 
In  what  light  does  he  place  his  thoughts* 
How  are  his  sentences  arranged ;  what 
is  studied  in  them;  and  for  what  are 
they  commonly  designed  ?  Of  a  diffuse 
writer,  what  is  remarked  ?  Why  does 
he  place  his  thought  in  a  variety  of 
lights;  and  why  is  he  not  careful  to  ex- 
press it  in  its  full  strength  at  first? 
What  do  writers  of  this  character 
generally  love;  and  of  their  periods, 
what  is  observed  ?  Of  each  of  these 
manners,  what  is  observed  ?  What  re- 
mark follows  ?  For  illustrations  of  these 
general  characters,  to  whom  does  our 
author  refer?  How  are  we  to  collect 
the  idea  of  a  formed  manner  of  writing? 
Who  are  the  two  most  remarkable  ex- 
amples known  by  our  author  ?  Of  Aris- 
totle, and  of  his  frugality,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  Of  a  beautiful  and  magnificent 
diffuseness,  who  is  the  most  illustrious 
instance  that  can  be  given ;  and  what 
other  writers  fall  in  some  degree  under 
this  class  ?  In  judging  when  it  is  proper 
to  lean  to  the  concise,  and  when  to  the 
diffuse  manner,  by  what  must  we  be 
directed  ?  Why  do  discourses  that  are 
to  be  spoken,  require  a  more  copious 
style,  than  books  that  are  to  be  read  ? 
On  what  should  we  never  presume? 
What  style,  therefore,  is  required  in  all 
public  speeches ;  guarding,  at  the  same 
time,  against  what?  In  written  compo- 
sitions, why  does  a  certain  degree  of 
conciseness,  possess  great  advantages  ? 
How  is  this  illustrated?  When  should 
description  be  in  a  concise  strain  ?  How 
does  it  appear  that  this  is  different  from 
the  common  opinion?  W'hat  does  our 
author,  on  the  contrary,  apprehend 
and  why?  Accordingly,  of  the  most 
masterly  describers,  what  is  observed  ? 
At  one  glance,  what  do  they  chow  us? 
Upon  what,  does  the  strength  and  vi- 
vacity of  description  much  depend? 

In  what  style  should  addresses  to  the 
passions  be  made  ?  In  these,  why  is  it 
dangerous  to  be  diffuse?  What  hazard 
attends  becoming  prolix?  Of  the  heart, 
and  the  fancy,  what  is  observed?  In  ad- 
dresses to  what,  is  the  case  quite  differ- 
ent ;  and  there,  what  manner  is  prefer- 
red ?  When  should  you  be  concise,  and 
when  is  it  better  to  be  full  ?  Of  historical 
narration,  what  is  observed ;  and  how 


204  6 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  xviij. 


is  tt'.3  illustrated?  Of  a  diffuse  writer, 
what  was  observed;  and  oi  a  concise 
writer,  what,  therefore,  is  certain? 
What,  however,  is  not  to  be  inferred 
from  this ;  and  why  not  ?  Who  is  a 
remarkable  example  of  this;  and  of 
his  sentences,  what  is  observed?  Of 
the  style  of  most  of  the  French  wri- 
ters, what  is  observed  ?  What  does  a 
French  author  do;  and  what  is  the 
direct  eli'ect  of  these  short  sentences? 
What  is  the  effect  of  the  quick,  succes- 
sive impulses,  which  they  make  on  the 
mind?  Of  long  periods,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  When  is  an  intermixture  of 
long  and  short  sentences  requisite  ?  But 
of  them,  what  is  said?  How  are  the 
nervous  and  the  feeble  generally  held  ? 
How  does  it  appear  that  they  do  very 
often  coincide  ?  As  this  does  not  always 
hold,  of  what  are  there  instances? 
Who  are  examples ;  and  of  the  latter 
etyle,  what  is  observed  ?  Where  is  the 
foundation  of  a  nervous  or  weak  style 
laid  ?  How  is  this  illustrated?  Of  his 
words  and  expressions,  what  is  obser- 
ved? What  impression  does  a  ner- 
vous writer  give  us  of  his  subject ;  and 
why  ?  What  was  before  observed  ? 
How  should  every  author  study  to  ex- 
press himself?  What  remark  follows ; 
and  when  should  strength  predominate 
in  style  ?  Hence,  where  i3  it  expected 
most ;  and  who  is  one  of  the  most  per- 
fect examples?  What  holds  of  the  ner- 
vous style  as  well  as  others  ?  What  is 
the  effect  of  too  great  a  study  of  strength ; 
and  from  what  does  harsnness  arise  ?  Of 
whom  is  this  reckoned  the  fault?  Of 
these  writers,  and  of  the  language  in 
their  hands,  what  is  observed  ?  WThat 
illustration  of  this  remark  is  given? 
What  advantages  attend  this  sort  of 
style  ?  To  what  has  the  present  form  of 
our  lancuaire  sacrificed  the  study  of 
strength  ?  Of  our  arrangement  of  words, 
what  is  remarked  ?  What  was  the  area 
of  the  formation  of  our  present  style  ? 
Who  was  the  first  who  laid  aside  those 
frequent  inversions?  Who  polished  the 
language  still  more?  But  to  whom  are 
we  most  indebted  for  the  present  state 
of  our  language ;  and  of  liim,  what  is 
observed  ?  Since  his  time,  to  what  has 
considerable  attention  been  paid ;  but 
what  follows?  How  do  we  now  com- 

Sare  with  the  ancients  ?  Hitherto,  how 
ave  we  considered  style  ?  How  do  we 
now  proceed  to  consider  it  ?  Here,  how 


does  the  style  of  different  authors  seem 
to  rise  ?  Of  a  dry  manner,  what  is  ob- 
served? Where,  only,  is  it  tolerable 
and  what,  even  there,  is  requisite  ?  Of 
Aristotle,  what  is  here  observed  ?  Why 
does  not  this  manner  deserve  to  be  imi- 
tated? Wrhat  is  remarked  of  a  plain 
style  ?  Of  a  writer  of  this  character, 
what  is  observed  ?  What  does  he  pur- 
sue in  liis  language  1  What,  also,  may 
be  consistent  with  a  very  plain  style : 
and  therefore,  what  follows  ?  What  is 
the  difference  between  a  dry  and  a 
plain  writer?  Repeat  the  remarks  here 
made  on  the  style  of  Dean  Swift.  What, 
also,  is  remarked  of  Mr.  Locke  ?  In  a 
neat  style,  what  have  we  reached ; 
and  of  a  writer  of  this  character,  what 
is  observed  ?  By  whom  may  such  a 
style  as  this  be  attained;  and  how? 
Of  it,  what  is  remarked,  and  how  ex- 
tensively may  it  be  used  ?  Of  an  ele- 
gant style,  what  is  observed  ?  From 
what  has  been  formerly  delivered,  what 
will  be  easily  understood  ?  What  far- 
ther does  it  imply;  and  of  an  elegant 
writer,  what  is  observed  ?  Whom  may 
we  place  in  this  class;  and  of  them 
what  is  observed  ?  What  forms  a  florid 
style?  Of  it,  in  a  young  composer,  what 
is  remarked ;  and  what  says  Quintilian? 
Why  must  not  this  style  receive  the 
same  indulgence  from  writers  of  ma- 
ture years?  Of  these  frothy  writers, 
what  is  observed ;  and  in  them,  what 
do  we  see?  What  has  escaped  them  ? 
Of  Mr.  Hervey's  Meditations,  what  is 
observed  ?  In  them,  what  justly  merits 
applause ;  but  what  are  of  a  false  kind  ? 
What  advice,  to  students  of  oratory,  is 
therefore  given?  Why  are  admonitions 
of  this  kind  repeated  ? 


ANALYSIS. 

1.  Directions  about  the  use  of  figures. 

a.  The  chief  beauties  of  composition  do 

not  depend  upon  them. 

b.  They  must    rise   naturally  from  thj 

subject. 

c.  They  should  not  be  employed  too  fre- 

quently. 

d.  Without  a  srenius  for  them,  they  should 

not  be  attempted. 

2.  Style,  with  respect  to  its  express:  in. 

a.  The  diffuse  and  the  concise  style. 

b.  The  nervous  and  the  feeble  style. 

3.  Style,  with  respect  to  ornament. 

a.  A  dry  style. 

b.  A  plain  style. 

c.  A  neat  style. 

d.  An  elegant  style. 
B.  A  florid  style. 


(205) 

LECTURE  XIX. 


GENERAL  CHARACTERS    OF   STYLE.— SIMPLE,    AF 
FECTED,  VEHEMENT.— DIRECTIONS  FOR 
FORMING  A  PROPER  STYLE. 

Having  entered,  in  the  last  lecture,  on  the  consideration  of  the 
general  characters  of  style,  I  treated  of  the  concise  and  diffuse,  the 
nervous  and  feehle  manner.  I  considered  style  also,  ^ith  relation 
to  the  different  degrees  of  ornament  employed  to  beautify  it,  in 
which  view,  the  manner  of  different  authors  rises  according  to  the 
following  gradation :  dry,  plain,  neat,  elegant,  flowery. 

I  am  next  to  treat  of  style  under  another  character,  one  of  great 
importance  in  writing,  and  which  requires  to  be  accurately  examin- 
ed, that  of  simplicity,  or  a  natural  style,  as  distinguished  from  affec- 
tation. Simplicity,  applied  to  writing,  is  a  term  very  frequently 
used;  but, like  other  critical  terms,  often  used  loosely  and  without 
precision.  This  has  been  owing  chiefly  to  the  different  meanings 
given  to  the  word  simplicity,  which,  therefore,  it  will  be  necessary 
here  to  distinguish  ;  and  to  show  in  what  sense  it  is  a  proper  attri- 
bute of  style.  We  may  remark  four  different  acceptations  in  which 
it  is  taken. 

The  first  is,  simplicity  of  composition,  as  opposed  to  too  great  a 
variety  of  parts.     Horace's  precept  refers  to  this : 

Denique  sit  quod  vis  simplex  duntaxat  et  unum.* 

This  is  the  simplicity  of  plan  in  a  tragedy,  as  distinguished  from 
double  plots,  and  crowded  incidents;  the  simplicity  of  the  Iliad,  or 
iEneid,  in  opposition  to  the  digressions  of  Lucan,  and  the  scattered 
tales  of  Ariosto ;  the  simplicity  of  Grecian  architecture,  in  opposition 
to  the  irregular  variety  of  the  Gothic.  In  this  sense,  simplicity  is 
the  same  with  unity. 

The  second  sense  is  simplicity  of  thought,  as  opposed  to  refine- 
ment. Simple  thoughts  are  what  arise  naturally  ;  what  the  occasion 
or  the  subject  suggest  unsought;  and  what,  when  once  suggested, 
are  easily  apprehended  by  all.  Refinement  in  writing,  expresses  a 
less  natural  and  obvious  train  of  thought,  and  which  it  required  a 
peculiar  turn  of  genius  to  pursue;  within  certain  bounds  very  beau- 
tiful ;  but  when  carried  too  far,  approaching  to  intricacy,  and  hurting 
us  by  the  appearance  of  being  recherche,  or  far  sought.  Thus,  we 
would  naturally  say,  that  Mr.  Parnell  is  a  poet  of  far  greater  simpli- 
city, in  his  turn  of  thought,  than  Mr.  Cowley;  Cicero's  thoughts  on 
moral  subjects  are  natural;  Seneca's  too  refined  and  laboured.  In 
these  two  senses  of  simplicity,  when  it  is  opposed,  either  to  variety 
of  parts,  or  to  refinement  of  thought,  it  has  no  proper  relation  to  style 

*  '  Then  learn  the  wandering  humour  to  control, 

And  keep  one  equal  tenour  through  the  whole'  Francis 


206  SIMPLICITY  AND  [lect.  xix. 

There,  is  a  third  sense  of  simplicity,  in  which  it  has  respect  to 
style;  and  stands  opposed  to  too  much  ornament  or  pomp  of  lan- 
guage ;  as  when  we  say,  Mr.  Locke  is  a  simple,  Mr.  Hervey  a  florid 
writer;  and  it  is  in  this  sense,  that  the  'simplex,'  the  ' tenue,'  oi 
'  subtile  genus  dicendi'  is  understood  hy  Cicero  and  Quintilian.  Th* 
simple  style,  in  this  sense,  coincides  with  the  plain  or  the  neat  style, 
which  I  before  mentioned;  and,  therefore,  requires  no  farther  illus- 
tration. 

But  there  is  a  fourth  sense  of  simplicity,  also,  respecting  style; 
but  not  respecting  the  degree  of  ornament  employed,  so  much  as 
the  easy  and  natural  manner  in  which  our  language  expresses  our 
thoughts.  This  is  quite  different  from  the  former  sense  of  the  word 
just  now  mentioned,  in  which  simplicity  was  equivalentto  plainness  : 
whereas,  in  this  sense,  it  is  compatible  with  the  highest  ornament. 
Homer,  for  instance,  possesses  this  simplicity  in  the  greatest  perfec- 
tion ;  and  yet  no  writer  has  more  ornament  and  beauty.  This  sim- 
plicity, which  is  what  we  are  now  to  consider,  stands  opposed,  not 
to  ornament,  but  to  affectation  of  ornament,  or  appearance  of  labour 
about  our  style  ;  and  it  is  a  distinguishing  excellency  in  writing. 

A  writer  of  simplicity  expresses  himself  in  such  a  manner,  that 
every  one  thinks  he  could  have  written  in  the  same  way;  Horace 
describes  it, 

. ut  sibi  quivis 

Speret  idem,  sudet  multum,  frustraque  laboret 
Ausus  idem.* 

There  are  no  marks  of  art  in  his  expression:  it  seems  the  very  lan- 
guage of  nature  ;  you  see  in  the  style,  not  the  writer  and  his  labour, 
but  the  man  in  his  own  natural  character.  He  may  be  rich  in  his 
expression;  he  may  be  full  of  figures,  and  of  fancy;  but  these  flow 
from  him  without  effort;  and  he  appears  to  write  in  this  manner,  not 
because  he  has  studied  it,  but  because  it  is  the  manner  of  expression 
most  natural  to  him.  A  certain  degree  of  negligence,  also,  is  not 
inconsistent  with  this  character  of  style,  and  even  not  ungraceful  in 
it;  for  too  minute  an  attention  to  words  is  foreign  to  it :  '  Habeat 
ille,'  says  Cicero,  (Orat.  No.  77  )  'molle  quiddam,  et  quod  indicet 
non  ingratam  negligentiam  hominis,  de  re  magis  quam  de  verbo  la- 
borantis.'t  This  is  the  great  advantage  of  simplicity  of  style,  that, 
like  simplicity  of  manners,  it  shows  us  a  man's  sentiments  and  turn 
of  mind  laid  open  without  disguise.  More  studied  and  artificial 
manrers  of  writing,  however  beautiful,  have  always  this  disadvan- 
tage, that  they  exhibit  an  author  in  form,  like  a  man  at  court,  where 
the  splendour  of  dress,and  the  ceremonial  of  behaviour,  conceal  those 
peculiarities  which  distinguish  one  man  from  another.  But  reading 
an  author  of  simplicity,  is  like  conversing  with  a  person  of  distinction 

*  « From  well-known  tales  such  fictions  would  I  raise, 
As  all  might  hope  to  imitate  with  ease; 
Yet  while  they  strive  the  same  success  to  gain, 

Should  find  their  labours,  and  their  hopes  in  vain.'  Francis. 

t  '  Let  this  style  have  a  certain  softness  and  ease,  which  shall  characterize  a  neg 
ligence,  not  unpleasing  in  an  author,  who  appears  to  be  more  solicitous  about  the 
thought  than  the  expression. 


iect  xrx.]         AFFECTATION  IN  STYLE.  207 

at  home,  and  with  ease,  where  we  find  natural  manners,  and  a  mark- 
ed character. 

The  highest  degree  of  this  simplicity,  is  expressed  by  a  French 
term,  to  which  we  have  none  that  fully  answers  in  our  language, 
naivete.  It  is  not  easy  to  give  a  precise  idea  of  the  import  of  this 
word.  It  always  expresses  a  discovery  of  character.  I  believe  the 
best  account  of  it  is  given  by  a  French  critic,  M.  Marmontel,  who 
explains  it  thus  :  That  sortof  amiable  ingenuity,  or  undisguised  open- 
ness, which  seems  to  give  us  some  degree  of  superiority  over  the 
person  who  shows  it;  a  certain  infantine  simplicity,  which  we  love  in 
our  hearts,  but  which  displays  some  features  of  the  character  that 
we  think  we  could  have  art  enough  to  hide ;  and  which,  therefore, 
always  leads  us  to  smile  at  the  person  who  discovers  this  character. 
La  Fontaine,  in  his  Fables,  is  given  as  the  great  example  of  such 
naivete.  This,  however,  is  to  be  understood,  as  descriptive  of  a  par- 
ticular species  only  of  simplicity. 

With  respect  to  simplicity  in  general,  we  may  remark,  that  the  an- 
cient original  writers  are  always  the  most  eminent  for  it.  This  hap- 
pens from  a  plain  reason,  that  they  wrote  from  the  dictates  of  natu- 
ral genius,  and  were  not  formed  upon  the  labours  and  writings  of 
others,  which  is  always  in  hazard  of  producing  affectation.  Hence, 
among  the  Greek  writers,  we  have  more  models  of  a  beautiful  sim- 
plicity than  among  the  Roman.  Homer,  Hesiod,  Anacroon,  Theo- 
critus, Herodotus,  and  Xenophon,  are  all  distinguished  for  it.  Among 
the  Romans  also,  we  have  some  writers  of  this  character,  particular- 
ly Terence,  Lucretius,  Phaedrus,  and  Julius  Caesar.  The  following 
passage  of  Terence's  Andria,  is  a  beautiful  instance  of  simplicity  of 
manner  in  description. 

Funus  interim 
Procedit ;  sequimur ;  ad  sepulchrum  venimus ; 
In  ignem  imposita  est;  fletur.     Interea  haec  soror, 
Quam  dixi,  ad  flammam  accessit  iraprudentius 
Satis  cum  periculo.     lbi  turn  esanimatus  Pamphilus, 
Bene  dissimulatum  amorem,et  celatum  indicat; 
Occurrit  pra3ceps,mulierem  ab  igne  retr&hit, 
Mea  Glycerium,  inquit,  quid  agis?  Cur  tu  is  perditum  ? 
Turn  ilia,  ut  consuetum  facile  auoorem  cerneres, 
Rejecit  se  in  eum,  flens  quam  familiariter* 

AH  the  words  here  are  remarkably  happy  and  elegant;  and  convoy 
&  most  lively  picture  of  the  scene  described ;  while,  at  the  sa  me  time, 

*  '  Meanwhile  the  funeral  proceeds  ;  we  follow  ; 
Come  to  the  sepulchre:  the  body's  placed 
Upon  the  pile  ;  lamented ;  whereupon 
This  sister  I  was  speaking  of,  all  wild, 
Ran  to  the  flames  with  peril  of  her  life. 
There!  there!  the  fright ^d  Pamphilus  betrays 
His  well-dissembled  and  long  hidden  love; 
Runs  up  and  takes  her  round  the  waist,  and  cries, 
Oh!  my  Glycerium!  what  is  it  you  do? 
Why,  why  endeavour  to  destroy  yourself  ? 
Then  she,  in  such  a  manner,  that  you  thence 
Might  easily  perceive  their  long,  long  love, 
Threw  herself  back  into  his  a:  ms,  and  wept, 
Oh!  how  familiarly  "  Cot*A». 


208  SIMPLICITY  AND  [lect.  xix 

the  style  appears  wholly  artless  and  unlaboured.  Let  us,  next,  con- 
sider some  English  writers  who  come  under  this  class. 

Simplicity  is  the  great  beauty  of  Archbishop  Tillotson's  manner. 
Tillotson  has  long  been  admired  as  an  eloquent  writer,  and  a  model 
for  preaching.  But  his  eloquence,  if  we  can  call  it  such,  has  been 
often  misunderstood.  For,  if  we  include  in  the  idea  of  eloquence, 
vehemence  and  strength,  picturesque  description,  glowing  figures,  or 
correct  arrangement  of  sentences,  in  all  these  parts  of  oratory  the 
Archbishop  is  exceedingly  deficient.  His  style  is  always  pure,  in- 
deed, and  perspicuous,  but  careless  and  rem'\ss;too  often  feeble  and 
languid ;  little  beauty  in  the  construction  of  his  sentences,  which  are 
frequently  suffered  to  drag  unharmoniously;  seldom  any  attempt  to- 
wards strength  or  sublimity.  But,  notwithstanding  these  defects, 
such  a  constant  vein  of  good  sense  and  piety  runs  through  his  works, 
such  an  earnest  and  serious  manner,  and  so  much  useful  instruction 
conveyed  in  a  style  so  pure,  natural,  and  unaffected,  as  will  justly  re- 
commend him  to  high  regard,  as  long  as  the  English  language  re- 
mains; not,  indeed,  as  a  model  of  the  highest  eloquence,  but  as  a 
simple  and  amiable  writer,  whose  manner  is  strongly  expressive  of 
great  goodness  and  worth.  I  observed  before,  that  simplicity  of 
manner  may  be  consistent  with  some  degree  of  negligence  in  style, 
and  it  is  only  the  beauty  of  that  simplicity  which  makes  the  negli- 
gence of  such  writers  seem  graceful.  But,  as  appears  in  the  Arch- 
bishop, negligence  may  sometimes  be  carried  so  far  as  to  impair  the 
beauty  of  simplicity,  and  make  it  border  on  a  flat  and  languid  manner. 

Sir  William  Temple  is  another  remarkable  writer  in  the  style  of 
simplicity.  In  point  of  ornament  and  correctness,  he  rises  a  degree 
above  Tillotson;  though,  for  correctness,  he  is  not  in  the  highest 
rank.  All  is  easy  and  flowing  in  him;  he  is  exceedingly  harmoni- 
ous ;  smoothness,  and  what  may  be  called  amenity,  are  the  distinguish- 
ing characters  of  his  manner;  relaxing,  sometimes,  as  such  a  man- 
ner will  naturally  do,  in  to  a  prolix  and  remiss  style.  No  writer  what- 
ever has  stamped  upon  his  style  a  more  lively  impression  of  his  own 
character.  In  reading  his  works,  we  seem  engaged  in  conversation 
with  him ;  we  become  thoroughly  acquainted  with  him,  not  merely  as 
an  author,  but  as  a  man ;  and  contract  a  friendship  for  him.  He  may 
be  classed  as  standing  in  the  middle,  between  a  negligent  simplicity, 
and  the  highest  degree  of  ornament,  which  this  character  of  style 
admits. 

Of  the  latter  of  these,  the  highest,  most  correct,  and  ornamented 
degree  of  the  simple  manner,  Mr.  Addison,  is,  beyond  doubt,  in  the 
English  language,  the  most  perfect  example:  and,  therefore,  though 
not  without  some  faults,  he  is,  on  the  whole,  the  safest  model  for 
imitation,  and  the  freest  from  considerable  defects,  which  the  lan- 
guage affords.  Perspicuous  and  pure,  he  is  in  the  highest  degree : 
his  precision,  indeed,  not  very  great,  yet  nearly  as  great  as  the  sub- 
jects which  he  treats  of  require;  the  construction  of  his  sentences 
easy,  agreeable,  and  commonly  very  musical;  carrying  a  character 
of  smoothness  more  than  of  strength.  In  figurative  language,  he  is 
rich    particularly  in  similes  and  metaphors;  which  are  so  employ 


ESCT.  xix.]         AFFECTATION  IN  STYLE.  20«> 

ed,  as  to  render  his  style  splendid,  without  being  gaudy.  There  Is 
not  the  least  affectation  in  his  manner;  we  see  no  marks  of  labour; 
nothing  forced  or  constrained;  but  great  elegancejoined  with  great 
ease  and  simplicity.  He  is,  in  particular,  distinguished  by  a  charac 
ter  of  modesty,  and  of  politeness,  which  appears  in  all  his  writings. 
No  author  hasamore  popular  and  insinuatingmanner;  and  the  great 
regard  which  he  every  where  shows  for  virtue  and  religion,  recom- 
mends him  highly.  If  he  fails  in  any  thing,  it  is  in  want  of  strength 
and  precision,  which  renders  his  manner,  though  perfectly  suited  to 
such  essays  as  he  writes  in  the  Spectator,  not  altogether  a  proper  mo- 
del for  any  of  the  higher  and  more  elaborate  kinds  of  composition. 
Though  the  public  have  ever  done  much  justice  to  his  merit,  yet  the 
nature  of  his  merit  has  not  always  been  seen  in  its  true  light;  for, 
though  his  poetry  be  elegant,  he  certainly  bears  a  higher  rank  among 
the  prose  writers,  than  he  is  entitled  to  among  the  poets;  and,  in 
prose,  his  humour  is  of  a  much  higher,  and  more  original  strain,  than 
his  philosophy.  The  character  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverly  discovers 
more  genius  than  the  critique  on  Milton. 

Such  authors  as  those,  whose  characters  I  have  been  giving,  one  is 
never  tired  of  reading.  There  is  nothingintheir  manner  that  strains 
or  fatigues  our  thoughts ;  we  are  pleased,  without  being  dazzled  by 
their  lustre.  So  powerful  is  the  charm  of  simplicity,  in  an  author 
of  real  genius,  that  it  atones  for  many  defects,  and  reconciles  us  to 
many  a  careless  expression.  Hence,  in  all  the  most  excellent  au- 
thors, both  in  prose  and  verse,  the  simple  and  natural  manner  may 
be  always  remarked  ;  although  other  beauties  being  predominant, 
this  forms  not  their  peculiar  and  distinguishing  character.  Thus  Mil- 
ton is  simple  in  the  midst  of  all  his  grandeur ;  and  Demosthenes  in 
the  midst  of  all  his  vehemence.  To  grave  and  solemn  writings, 
simplicity  of  manner  adds  the  more  venerable  air.  Accord  ngly, 
this  has  often  been  remarked  as  the  prevailing  character  throughout 
all  the  sacred  scriptures  ;  and,  indeed,  no  other  character  of  style  was 
so  much  suited  to  the  dignity  of  inspiration. 

Of  authors  who,  notwithstanding  many  excellencies,  have  'en- 
dered  their  style  much  less  beautiful  by  want  of  simplicity,  I  cannot 
give  a  more  remarkable  example  than  Lord  Shaftesbury.  This  is 
an  author  on  whom  I  have  made  observations  several  times  before, 
and  shall  now  take  leave  of  him,  with  giving  his  general  character 
under  this  head.  Considerable  merit,  doubtless,  he  has.  His 
works  might  be  read  with  profit  for  the  moral  philosophy  which  they 
contain,  had  he  not  filled  them  with  so  many  oblique  and  invidious 
.nsinuations  against  the  christian  religion;  thrown  out,  too,  with 
so  much  spleen  and  satire,  as  do  no  honour  to  his  memory,  either 
as  an  author  or  a  man.  His  language  has  many  beauties.  It  is  firm, 
and  supported  in  an  uncommon  degree;  it  is  rich  and  musical.  No 
English  author,  as  I  formerly  showed,  has  attended  so  much  to  the 
regular  construction  of  his  sentences,  both  with  respect  to  propriety , 
and  with  respect  to  cadence.  All  this  gives  so  much  elegance  and 
pomp  to  his  language,  that  there  is  no  wonder  it  should  have  been 

27 


210  SIMPLICITY  IN  STYLE.  [lect.  x;x. 

highly  admired  by  some.  It  is  greatly  hurt,  however,  by  perpe 
tual  stiffness  and  affectation.  This  is  its  capital  fault.  His  lordship 
can  express  nothing  with  simplicity.  He  seems  to  have  considered 
it  as  vulgar,  and  beneath  the  dignity  of  a  man  of  quality, to  speak 
like  other  men.  Hence  he  is  ever  in  buskins;  and  dressed  out  with 
magnificent  elegance.  In  every  sentence,  we  see  the  marks  of 
labour  and  art ;  nothing  of  that  ease  which  expresses  a  sentiment 
coming  natural  and  warm  from  the  heart.  Of  figures  and  orna 
ment  of  every  kind,  he  is  exceedingly  fond,  sometimes  happy  in 
them  ;  but  his  fondness  for  them  is  too  visible ;  and  having  once  laid 
hold  of  some  metaphor  or  allusion  that  pleased  him,  he  knows  not 
how  to  part  with  it.  What  is  most  wonderful,  he  was  a  professed 
admirer  of  simplicity;  is  always  extolling  it  in  the  ancients,  and 
censuring  the  moderns  for  the  want  of  it;  though  he  departs  from 
it  himself  as  far  as  any  one  modern  whatever.  Lord  Shaftesbury 
possessed  delicacy  and  refinement  of  taste,  to  a  degree  that  we 
may  call  excessive  and  sickly;  but  he  had  little  warmth  of  passion; 
few  strong  or  vigorous  feelings,  and  the  coldness  of  his  character, 
led  him  to  that  artificial  and  stately  manner  which  appears  in  his 
writings.  He  was  fonder  of  nothing  than  of  wit  and  raillery ;  but  he 
is  far  from  being  happy  in  it.  He  attempts  it  often,  but  always 
awkwardly;  he  is  stiff, even  in  his  pleasantry ;  and  laughs  in  form, 
like  an  author,  and  not  like  a  man.* 

From  the  account  which  I  have  given  of  Lord  Shaftesbury's  man- 
ner, it  may  easily  be  imagined,  that  he  would  mislead  many  who 
blindly  admired  him.  Nothing  is  more  dangerous  to  the  tribe  of 
imitators,  than  an  author,  who,  with  many  imposing  beauties,  has 
also  some  very  considerable  blemishes.  This  is  fully  exemplified 
in  Mr.  Blackwall,  of  Aberdeen,  the  author  of  the  Life  of  Homer, 
the  Letters  on  Mythology,  and  the  Court  of  Augustus;  a  writer  of 
considerable  learning,  and  of  ingenuity  also;  but  infected  with  an 
extravagant  love  of  an  artificial  style,  and  of  that  parade  of  lan- 
guage which  distinguishes  the  Shaftesburean  manner. 

Having  now  said  so  much  to  recommend  simplicity,  or  the  easy 
and  natural  manner  of  writing,  and  having  pointed  out  the  defects 
of  an  opposite  manner ;  in  order  to  prevent  mistakes  on  this  subject, 
it  is  necessary  for  me  to  observe,  that  it  is  very  possible  for  an  au- 
thor to  write  simply,  and  yet  not  beautifully.  One  may  be  free 
from  affectation,  and  not  have  merit.  The  beautiful  simplicity  sup- 
poses an  author  to  possess  real  genius;  to  write  with  solidity,  purity, 
and  liveliness  of  imagination.  In  this  case,  the  simplicity  or  unaf- 
fected ness  of  his  manner,  is  the  crowning  ornament;  it  heightens 
every  other  beauty;  it  is  the  dress  of  nature,  without  which,  al' 
beauties  are  imperfect.     But  if  mere  unaffected ness  were  sufficient 

*  It  may  perhaps  be  not  unworthy  of  being  mentioned,  that  the  first  edition  o/ 
bis  Inquiry  into  Virtue,  was  published,  surreptitiously,  I  believe,  in  a  separat* 
form,  in  the  year  1699 ;  and  is  sometimes  to  be  met  with  :  by  comparing  which, 
with  the  corrected  edition  of  the  same  treatise,  as  it  now  stands  among  his  works, 
we  see  one  of  the  most  curious  ar.d  useful  examples  that  I  know,  of  what  is  cal- 
led Limte  labor:  the  art  of  polishing  language,  breaking  long  sentences,  and  workirg 
»p  an  imperfect  draught  into  a  highly  finished  performance. 


LEC7    Jtix.]  VEHEMENT  STYLE.  211 

to  constitute  the  beauty  of  style,  weak,  trifling,  and  dull  writers 
might  often  lay  claim  to  this  beauty.  And  accordingly  we  fre- 
quently meet  with  pretended  critics,  who  extol  the  dullest  wri- 
ters on  account  of  what  they  call  the  'chaste  simplicity  of  their 
manner;'  which,  in  truth,  is  no  other  than  the  absence  of  every 
ornament,  through  the  mere  want  of  genius  and  imagination.  We 
must  distinguish,  therefore,  between  that  simplicity  which  accom- 
panies true  genius,  and  which  is  perfectly  compatible  with  every 
proper  ornament  of  style,  and  that  which  is  no  other  than  a  careless 
and  a  slovenly  manner.  Indeed,  the  distinction  is  easily  made 
from  the  effect  produced.  The  one  never  fails  to  interest  the  rea- 
der; the  other  is  insipid  and  tiresome. 

I  proceed  to  mention  one  other  manner  or  character  of  style, 
different  from  any  that  I  have  yet  spoken  of;  which  may  be  dis- 
tinguished by  the  name  of  the  vehement.  This  always  implies 
strength,  and  is  not,  by  any  means,  inconsistent  with  simplicity ; 
but,  in  its  predominant  character,  is  distinguishable  from  either  the 
strong  or  the  simple  manner.  It  has  a  peculiar  ardour;  it  is  a  glow- 
ing style;  the  language  of  a  man,  whose  imagination  and  passions 
are  heated,  and  strongly  affected  by  what  he  writes ;  who  is  there- 
fore negligent  of  lesser  graces,  but  pours  himself  forth  with  the/ 
rapidity  and  fullness  of  a  torrent.  It  belongs  to  the  higher  kinds  of 
oratory;  and  indeed  is  rather  expected  from  a  man  who  is  speaking, 
than  from  one  who  is  writing  in  his  closet.  The  orations  of  De- 
mosthenes furnish  the  full  and  perfect  example  of  this  species  of 
style. 

Among  English  writers,  the  one  who  has  most  of  this  character, 
though  mixed,  indeed,  with  several  defects,  is  Lord  Bolingbroke. 
Bolingbroke  was  formed  by  nature  to  be  a  factious  leader;  the  de- 
magogue of  a  popular  assembly.  Accordingly,  the  style  that  runs 
through  all  his  political  writings,  is  that  of  one  declaiming  with 
heat,  rather  than  writing  with  deliberation.  He  abounds  in  rheto- 
rical figures;  and  pours  himself  forth  with  great  impetuosity.  He 
is  copious  to  a  fault;  places  the  same  thought  before  us  in  many 
different  views ;  but  generally  with  life  and  ardour.  He  is  bold 
rather  than, correct;  a  torrent  that  flows  strong,  but  often  muddy. 
His  sentences  are  varied  as  to  length  and  shortness ;  inclining,  how 
ever,  most  to  long  periods  ;  sometimes  including  parentheses,  an. I 
frequently  crowding  and  heaping  a  multitude  of  things  upon  one  an- 
other, as  naturally  happens  in  the  warmth  of  speaking.  In  the 
choice  of  his  words,  there  is  great  felicity  and  precision.  In  exact 
construction  of  sentences,  he  is  much  inferior  to  Lord  Shaftesbury; 
but  greatly  superior  to  him  in  life  and  ease.  Upon  the  whole,  his 
merit  as  a  writer  would  have  been  very  considerable,  if  his  matter 
had  equalled  his  style.  But  while  we  find  much  to'  commend 
in  the  latter,  in  the  former,  as  I  before  remarked,  we  can  hardly 
find  anything  to  commend.  In  his  reasonings,  for  the  most  part,  he  is 
flimsy  and  false;  in  his  political  writings,  factious;  in  what  he  calls 
his  philosophical  ones,  irreligious  and  sophistical  in  the  higher  ie 
sree. 


212  GENERAL  CHARACTERS  [lect.  xix 

T  shall  insist  no  longer  on  the  different  manners  of  writers, or  the 
general  characters  of  style.  Some  others,  beside  those  which  I  have 
mentioned,  might  be  pointed  out;  but  I  am  sensible  that  it  is  very 
difficult  to  separate  such  general  considerations  of  the  style  of  au- 
thors from  their  peculiar  turn  of  sentiment,  which  it  is  not  mv 
business,  at  present,  to  criticise.  Conceited  writers,  for  instance 
discover  their  spirit  so  much  in  their  composition,  that  it  imprints 
on  their  style  a  character  of  pertness;  though  I  confess  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  say,  whether  this  can  be  classed  among  the  attributes  of 
style,  or  rather  is  to  be  ascribed  entirely  to  the  thought.  In  what- 
ever class  we  rank  it,  all  appearances  of  it  ought  to  be  avoided 
with  care,  as  a  most  disgusting  blemish  in  writing.  Under  the  gen- 
eral heads  which  I  have  considered,  I  have  taken  an  opportunity  of 
giving  the  character  of  many  of  the  eminent  classics  in  the  English 
language. 

From  what  I  have  said  on  this  subject,  it  may  be  inferred,  that 
to  determine  among  all  these  different  manners  of  writing,  what 
is  precisely  the  best,  is  neither  easy,  nor  necessary.  Style  is  a 
field  that  admits  great  latitude.  Its  qualities  in  different  authors 
may  be  very  different;  and  yet  in  them  all  beautiful.  Room  must 
be  left  here  for  genius;  for  that  particular  determination  which 
every  one  receives  from  nature  to  one  manner  of  expressipn  more 
than  another.  Some  general  qualities,  indeed,  there  are,of  such 
importance,  as  should  always,  in  every  kind  of  composition,  be 
kept  in  view;  and  some  defects  we  should  always  study  to  avoid.. 
An  ostentatious,  a  feeble,  a  harsh,  or  an  obscure  style,  for  instance, 
are  always  faults;  and  perspicuity,  strength,  neatness,  and  sim- 
plicity, are  beauties  to  be  always  aimed  at.  But  as  to  the  mixture 
of  all,  or  the  degree  of  predominancy  of  any  one  of  these  good 
qualities,  for  forming  our  peculiar  distinguishing  manner,  no  precise 
rules  can  be  given ;  nor  will  I  venture  to  point  out  anyone  model 
as  absolutely  perfect. 

It  will  be  more  to  the  purpose,  that  I  conclude  these  dissertations 
upon  style,  with  a  k\v  directions  concerning  the  proper  method  of 
attaining  a  good  style,  in  general ;  leaving  the  particular  character 
of  that  style  to  be  either  formed  by  the  subject  on  which  we  write, 
or  prompted  by  the  bent  of  genius. 

The  first  direction  which  I  give  for  this  purpose,is,  to  study  clear 
ideas  on  the  subject  concerning  which  we  are  to  write  or  speak.  This 
is  a  direction  which  may  at  first  appear  to  have  small  relation  to 
style.  Its  relation  to  it,  however,  is  extremely  close.  The  founda- 
tion of  all  good  style,  is  good  sense,  accompanied  with  a  lively  ima- 
gination. The  style  and  thoughts  of  a  writer  are  so  intimately  con- 
nected, that,  as  I  have  several  times  hinted,  it  is  frequently  hard  to 
distinguish  them.  Wherever  the  impressions  of  things  upon  our 
minds  are  faint  and  indistinct,  or  perplexed  and  confused,  our  style 
in  treating  of  such  things  will  infallibly  be  so  too.  Whereas,  what 
we  conceive  clearly  and  feel  strongly,  we  shall  naturally  express 
with  clearness  and  with  strength.  This,  then,  we  may  be  assured, 
is  a  capital  rule  as  to  style,  to  think  closely  of  the  subject,  till  w© 


lect.  xix.]  OF  STYLE.  213 

have  attained  a  full  and  distinct  view  of  the  matter  which  we  are 
to  clothe  in  words,  till  we  become  warm  and  interested  in  it;  then 
and  not  till  then,  shall  we  find  expression  begin  to  flow.  Generally 
speaking,  the  best  and  most  proper  expressions,  are  those  which  a 
clear  view  of  the  subject  suggests, without  much  labour  or  inquiry 
after  them.  This  is  Quintilian's  observation,  lib.  viii.  c.  1.  'Ple- 
rumque  optima  verba  rebus  coherent,  et  cernuntur  suo  luinine. 
At  nos  quserimus  ilia,  tanquam  lateant,  seque  subducant.  Ita  nun- 
quam  putamus  verba  esse  circa  id  de  quo  dicendum  est;  sed  ex  aliis 
loeis  petimus,  et  inventis  vim  afferimus.'* 

In  the  second  place,  in  order  to  form  a  good  style,  the  frequent 
practice  of  composing  is  indispensably  necessary.  Many  rules  con- 
cerning style  I  have  delivered,  but  no  rules  will  answer  the  end. 
without  exercise  and  habit.  At  the  same  time,  it  is  not  every  sort  of 
composing  that  will  improve  style.  This  is  so  far  from  being  the 
case,  that  by  frequent,  careless,  and  hasty  composition,  we  shall  ac- 
quire certainly  a  very  bad  style;  we  shall  have  more  trouble  after- 
wards in  unlearning  faults,  and  correcting  negligences,  than  if  we 
had  not  been  accustomed  to  composition  at  all.  In  the  beginning, 
therefore,  we  ought  to  write  slowly  and  with  much  care.  Let  the 
facility  and  speed  of  writing,  be  the  fruit  of  longer  practice.  'Mo- 
ram  et  solicitudinem,'  says  Quintilian,with  the  greatest  reason,  1.  x. 
c.  3.  'initiis  impero.  Nam  primum  hoc  constituendum  acobtinen- 
dum  est,  ut  quam  optime  scribamus;  celeritatem  dabit  consuetudo. 
Paulatim  res  facilius  se  ostendent,  verba  respondebunt,  compositio 
prosequetur.  Cuncta  denique  ut  in  familia  bene  instituta  in  officio 
•erunt.  Summa  haec  est  rei ;  cito  scribendo  non  fit  ut  bene  scribatur ; 
bene  scribendo,  fit  ut  cito.'"*" 

We  must  observe,  however,  that  there  may  be  an  extreme,  in 
too  great  and  anxious  care  about  words.  We  must  not  retard 
the  course  of  thought,  nor  eool  the  heat  of  imagination,  by  pausing 
too  long  on  every  word  we  employ.  There  is,  on  certain  occasions, 
a  glow  of  composition  which  should  be  kept  up,  if  we  hope  to  ex- 
press ourselves  happily,  though  at  the  expense  of  allowing  some 
inadvertencies  to  pass.  A  more  severe  examination  of  these  must 
be  left  to  be  the  work  of  correction.  For,  if  the  practice  of  compo- 
sition be  useful,  the  laborious  work  of  correcting  is  no  less  so:  it  is 
indeed  absolutely  necessary  to  our  reaping  any  benefit  from  the 
habit  of  composition.     What  we  have  written,  should  be  laid  by 

*  '  The  most  proper  words  for  the  most  part  adhere  to  the  thoughts  which  arc 
'jo  be  expressed  by  them,  and  may  be  discovered  as  by  their  own  light.  But  wi> 
"lUQt  after  them,  as  if  they  were  hidden,  and  only  to  be  fou.  d  in  a  corner.  Hence 
•ostead  of  conceiving  the  words  to  lie  near  the  subject,  we  go  in  quest  of  them  to 
some  other  quarter,  and  endeavour  to  give  force  to  the  expressions  we  ha*e  found 
out/ 

t  'I  enjoin,  that  such  as  are  beginning  the  practice  of  composition,  write  slowly 
and  with  anxious  deliberation.  Their  great  object  at  first  should  be,  to  write  as 
well  as  possible ;  practice  will  enable  them  to  write  speedily.  By  degrees,  matter 
will  offer  itself  still  more  readily  ;  words  will  be  at  hand ;  composition  will  don  ; 
every  thing  as  in  the  arrangement  of  a  well-ordered  family,  will  present  itself  in  i  3 
proper  place.  The  sum  of  the  whole  is  this;  by  hasty  composition,  we  shall  never 
acquire  the  art  of  composing  well ;  by  writing  well,  we  shall   come  to  write  speedily 


214  DIRECTIONS  FOR  [lect.  xij 

foi  some  little  time,  till  the  ardour  of  composition  be  past,  till  the 
fondness  for  the  expressions  we  have  used  be  worn  off,  and  the  ex- 
piessions  themselves  be  forgotten;  and  then,  reviewing  our  work 
with  a  coo?  and  critical  eye,  as  if  it  were  the  performance  of  another, 
we  shall  discern  many  imperfections  which  at  first  escaped  us.  Then 
is  the  season  for  pruning  redundances;  for  weighing  the  arrange- 
ment of  sentences;  for  attending  to  the  juncture  and  connecting 
pai  tides;  and  bringing  style  into  a  regular,  correct,  and  supported 
form.  This  '  Limas  Labor/  must  be  submitted  to  by  all  who  would 
communicate  their  thoughts  with  proper  advantage  to  others;  and 
some  practice  in  it  will  soon  sharpen  their  eye  to  the  most  necessary 
objects  of  attention,  and  render  it  a  much  more  easy  and  practicable 
work  than  might  at  first  be  imagined. 

In  the  third  place,  with  respect  to  the  assistance  that  is  to  be  gain- 
ed from  the  writings  of  others,  it  is  obvious,  that  we  ought  to  render 
ourselves  well  acquainted  with  the  style  of  the  best  authors.  This 
is  requisite  both  in  order  to  form  a  just  taste  in  style,  and  to  supply 
us  with  a  full  stock  of  words  on  every  subject.  In  reading  authors 
with  a  view  to  style,  attention  should  be  given  to  the  peculiarities  of 
their  different  manners ;  and  in  this,  and  former  lectures,  I  have  en- 
deavoured to  suggest  several  things  that  may  be  useful  in  this  view. 
I  know  no  exercise  that  will  be  found  more  useful  for  acquiring 
a  proper  style,  than  to  translate  some  passages  from  an  eminent  En- 
glish author,  into  our  own  words.  What  1  mean  is.  to  take,  for  in- 
stance, some  page  of  one  of  Mr.  Addison's  Spectators,  and  read  il 
carefully  over  two  or  three  times,  till  we  have  got  a  firm  hold  of  the 
thoughts  contained  in  it ;  then  to  lay  aside  the  book ;  to  attempt  to 
write  out  the  passage  from  memory,  in  the  best  way  we  can;  and 
having  done  so,  next  to  open  the  book,  and  compare  what  we  have 
written  with  the  style  of  the  author.  Such  an  exercise  will,  by  com- 
parison, show  us  where  the  defects  of  our  style  lie;  will  lead  us  to 
the  proper  attentions  for  rectifying  them;  and,  among  the  different 
ways  in  which  the  same  thought  may  be  expressed,  w;U  make  us 
perceive  that  which  is  the  most  beautiful.     But, 

In  the  fourth  place,  I  must  caution,  at  the  same  time,  against  a  ser- 
vile imitation  of  any  author  whatever.  This  is  always  dangerous. 
It  hampers  genius ;  it  is  likely  to  produce  a  stiff  manner;  and  those 
who  are  given  to  close  imitation,  generally  imitate  an  author's  faults 
as  well  as  his  beauties.  No  man  will  ever  become  a  good  writer  or 
speaker,  who  has  not  some  degree  of  confidence  to  follow  his  own 
genius.  We  ought  to  beware,  in  particular,  of  adopting  any  author's 
noted  phrases,  or  transcribing  passages  from  him.  Such  a  habit  will 
prove  fatal  to  all  genuine  composition.  Infinitely  better  it  is  to  have 
something  that  is  our  own,  though  of  moderate  beauty,  than  to  affect 
to  shine  in  borrowed  ornaments,  which  will,  at  last,  betray  the  utter 
poverty  of  our  genius.  On  these  heads  of  composing,  correcting, 
reading,  and  imitating,  I  advise  every  student  of  oratory  to  consult 
what  Quintilian  has  delivered  in  the  tenth  book  of  his  Institutions, 
where  he  will  find  a  variety  of  excellent  observations  and  directions, 
that  well  deserve  attention. 


lect.  xix.]  FORMING  STYLE.  215 

In  the  fifth  place,  it  is  an  obvious,  but  material  rule,  with  respect 
to  style,  that  we  always  study  to  adapt  it  to  the  subject,  and  also  to  the 
e?.pacity  of  our  hearers,  if  we  are  to  speak  :~  public.  Nothing  me- 
rits the  name  of  eloquent  or  beautiful,  which  is  not  suited  to  the  oc- 
casion, and  to  the  persons  to  whom  it  is  addressed.  It  is  to  the  last 
degree  awkward  and  absurd,  to  attempt  a  poetical  florid  style,  on 
occasions  when  it  should  be  our  business  only  to  argue  and  reason  ; 
or  to  speak  with  elaborate  pomp  of  expression,  before  persons  who 
comprehend  nothing  of  it,  and  who  can  only  stare  at  our  unseasona- 
ble magnificence.  These  are  defects  not  so  much  in  point  of  style, 
as,  what  is  much  worse,  in  point  of  common  sense.  When  we  begin 
to  write  or  speak,  we  ought  previously  to  fix  in  our  minds  a  clear  con- 
ception of  the  end  to  be  aimed  at;  to  keep  this  steadily  in  our  view, 
and  to  suit  our  style  to  it.  If  we  do  not  sacrifice  to  this  great  object 
every  ill-timed  ornament  that  may  occur  to  our  fancy,  we  are  unpar- 
donable; and  though  children  and  fools  may  admire,  men  of  sense 
will  laugh  at  us  and  our  style. 

In  the  last  place,  I  cannot  conclude  the  subject  without  this  admo- 
nition, that  in  any  case,  and  on  any  occasion,  attention  to  style  must 
not  engross  us  so  much,  as  to  detract  from  a  higher  degree  of  atten- 
tion to  the  thoughts.  'Curam  verborum/  says  the  great  Roman  cri- 
tic, 'rerum  volo  esse  solicitudinem.'*  A  direction  the  more  neces- 
sary, as  the  present  taste  of  the  age  in  writing,  seems  to  lean  more  to 
style  than  to  thought.  It  is  much  easier  to  dress  up  trivial  and  com- 
mon sentiments  with  some  beauty  of  expression,  than  to  afford  a  fund 
of  vigorous,  ingenious,  and  useful  thoughts.  The  latter,  requires 
true  genius ;  the  former  may  be  attained  by  industry,  with  the  help 
of  very  superficial  parts.  Hence,  we  find  so  many  writers  frivolously 
rich  in  style,  but  wretchedly  poor  in  sentiment.  The  public  ear  is 
now  so  much  accustomed  to  a  correct  and  ornamented  style,  that 
no  writer  can,  with  safety,  neglect  the  study  of  it.  But  he  is  a 
contemptible  one  who  does  not  look  to  something  beyond  it:  who 
does  not  lay  the  chief  stress  upon  his  matter,  and  employ  such 
ornaments  of  style  to  recommend  it,  as  are  manly,  not  foppish  : 
'Majore  animo,'  says  the  writer  whom  I  have  so  often  quoted,  'ag- 
gredienda  est  eloquentia ;  quae  si  toto  corpore  valet,  ungues  polire,  et 
capillum  componere,  non  existimabitad  curam  suam  pertinere.  Or- 
natus  et  virilis  et  fortis  et  sanctus  sit;  nee  effeminatam  levitatem,  et 
fuco  ementitum  colorem  amet;  sanguine  et  viribus  niteat.'t 

*  '  To  your  expressions  be  attentive  :  but  about  your  matter  be  solicitous.' 
t  '  A  higher  spirit  ought  to  animate  those  who  study  eloquence.  They  ought  to 
consult  the  health  and  soundness  of  the  whole  body,  rather  than  bend  their  atten- 
tion to  such  trifling  objects  as  paring  the  nails,  and  dressing  the  hair.  Let  orna- 
ment be  manly  and  chaste,  without  effeminate  gayety,  or  artificial  colouring ;  lot 
«t  shine  with  the  glow  of  health  and  strength.' 

21 


(215  a  ) 
Q,UESTIOIVS. 


Of  what  kinds  of  style  did  our  au- 
thor treat  in  the  last  lecture?  With 
relation  to  what,  was  style  also  consi- 
dered? Under  what  other  character 
is  he  next  to  consider  style  ?  Of  simpli- 
city, when  applied  to  writing,  what  is 
boserved  ?  To  what,  chielly,  has  this 
oeen  owing ;  and  what  is,  consequent- 
y,  necessary?  How  many  different  ac- 
ceptations of  it  may  we  remark ;  and 
what  is  the  first  ?  Repeat  the  precept 
of  Horace,  in  reference  to  this.  By 
what  examples  is  the  nature  of  this 
simplicity  illustrated  ?  In  this  sense,  it 
is  the  same  with  what  ?  What  is  the 
second  acceptation  in  which  simplicity 
is  taken  ?  What  are  simple  thoughts  ? 
Of  refinement  in  writing,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  Thus,  what  should  we  natu- 
rally say  ?  In  these  two  senses,  to  what 
has  simplicity  no  proper  relt-  tion  ?  To 
what  does  simplicity,  in  the  cnird  sense, 
stand  opposed?  What  illustration  of 
this  is  given?  With  what  does  simple 
style,  in  this  sense,  coincide  ;  and  what 
follows?  What  does  simplicity,  in  the 
fourth  sense,  particularly  respect? 
From  what  is  simplicity,  in  this,  quite 
different ;  and  with  what  is  it  compati- 
ble ?  How  is  this  remark  illustrated  ? 
To  what  does  this  simplicity  stand  op- 
posed ;  and  what  is  it  considered  ?  How 
does  a  writer  of  simplicity  express  him- 
self? How  does  Horace  describe  it  ?  Of 
his  expression,  what  is  observed;  and 
in  his  style,  what  do  you  see  ?  Of  his 
expression,  figures,  and  fancy,  what  is 
remarked  ?  What,  also,  is  not  incon- 
sistent with  this  character  of  style; 
and  why  ?  What  says  Cicero  ?  What 
is  the  great  advantage  of  simplicity  of 
style  ?  What  disadvantages  have  more 
studied  and  artificial  manners  of  wri- 
ting ?  But  reading  an  author  of  simpli- 
city, is  like  what  ?  By  what  French 
term  is  the  highest  degree  of  this  sim- 
plicity expressed  ?  What  does  it  always 
express?  What  is  the  best  account 
that  can  be  ijiven  of  it  ?  Where  are 
many  examples  of  it  to  be  found;  and 
how  is  this  to  be  understood  ?  With  re- 
spect to  simplicity  m  general,  what 
n  ay  we  remark  ?  How  does  this  hap- 
pen? Hence,  what  follows?  Among 
the  Greek's,  and  also  among  the  Ro- 
mans, what  individuals  were  distin- 
guished for  it?  Repeat  the  passage 
here  introduced  from  Terence's  Andria  ? 
Of  this  passage,  what  is  observed  ? 
What  shall  we  next  consider  ?  What  is 
the  ffreat  beauty  or  Tillotson's  man- 


ner; and  how  has  he  long  been  ad- 
mired ?  Of  his  eloquence,  what  is  ob- 
served ;  and  why  ?  What  is  said  of  his 
style  ?  But  notwithstanding  these  de- 
fects, what  will  ever  recommend  him 
to  high  regard;  and  as  what?  What 
was  before  observed  on  simplicity  of 
manner  ?  But  how  far  may  this  sim 
plicity  sometimes  be  carried  ?  In  sim- 
plicity, how  does  Sir  William  Temple 
compare  with  Tillotson  ?  Of  his  style 
and  manner,  what  is  observed ;  and  on 
his  style,  what  is  stamped  ?  What  ef- 
fect is  produced  in  reading  his  works  ? 
How  may  he  be  classed  ?  Of  Mr.  Ad- 
dison's style,  what  is  observed;  and, 
therefore,  what  follows  ?  Of  Iris  perspi- 
cuity, purity,  and  precision,  and  also  ol 
the  construction  of  his  sentences,  what 
is  remarked  ?  How  is  he  in  figura- 
tive language ;  and  what  is  said  of 
his  manner  ?  By  what  is  he  particu- 
larly distinguished?  Of  his  manner, 
what  is  observed;  and  what  recom- 
mends him  highly?  If  in  any  thing,  in 
what  does  he  fail;  and  what  is  the 
consequence?  From  what  does  it  ap- 
pear that  his  merit  has  not  always 
been  seen  in  its  true  Iis;ht;  and  what 
illustration  is  given?  Why  is  one  never 
tired  of  reading  such  authors  as  those 
whose  characters  our  author  has  been 
giving  ?  Of  the  charm  of  simplicity  in 
an  author  of  real  genius,  what  is  ob- 
served? Hence,  what  follows?  What 
examples  are  given  ?  What  is  the  ef- 
fect of  simplicity  in  grave  and  solemn 
writings?  Accordingly,  of  what  wri- 
tings has  this  often  been  remarked  to 
be  the  prevailing  character ;  and  why  ? 
Of  what  is  Lord  Shaftesbury  a  re- 
markable example?  Were  it  not  for 
what,  might  his  works  be  read  with 
profit,  for  the  moral  philosophy  which 
they  contain  ?  Of  his  language,  and  ot 
his  sentences,  what  is  observed  ?  AVhat 
is  the  effect  of  all  this  ?  What  is  hie 
capital  fault?  How  is  this  remark  il- 
lustrated? Of  his  figures  and  orna- 
ments of  every  land,  what  is  observed  ? 
Of  him,  what  is  most  wonderful  ?  To 
what  degree  did  he  possess  delicacy 
and  refinement  of  taste  ?  But  what  re- 
mark follows  ?  Of  his  wit  and  raiilery, 
what  is  observed  ? 

From  the  account  given  of  Lord 
Shaftesbury's  manner,  what  may  ea- 
sily be  imagined?  What  remark  fol- 
lows ?  In  whom  is  this  fully  exemplifi 
ed ;  and  what  is  said  of  him  ?  After  ali 
thai  has  been  said,  what  is  it  necessa 


LECT.  XIX.] 


QUESTIONS. 


215  b 


ry  to  observe  ?  From  what  may  one  be 
free,  and  not  have  merit?  What  does 
the  beautiful  simplicity  suppose?  In 
this  case,  what  is  the  crowning  orna- 
ment ;  and  what  is  its  effect  ?  But  if 
mere  unaffectedness  were  sufficient  to 
constitute  the  beauty  of  style,  what 
consequence  would  follow?  And  ac- 
cordingly, with  what  do  we  frequently 
meet?  Between  what,  therefore,  must 
we  distinguish  ?  What  different  effects 
do  they  produce?  To  mention  what, 
does  our  author  now  proceed  ?  What 
does  this  always  imply ;  and  with  what 
is  it  not  inconsistent?  But  from  what, 
in  its  predominant  character,  is  it  dis- 
finguishable?  Describe  it.  To  what 
does  it  belong;  and  from  whom  is  it 
expected  ?  WThere  do  we  find  a  perfect 
example  of  it  ?  Who,  among  English 
writers,  has  the  most  of  this  character? 
For  what  was  he,  by  nature,  formed ; 
and  accordingly,  what  follows?  With 
what  does  he  abound ;  and  of  his  copi- 
ousness, what  is  observed?  What  re- 
mark follows  ?  Of  his  sentences,  what 
is  observed  ?  In  the  choice  of  his  words, 
and  in  the  exact  construction  of  his 
sentences,  what  is  observed?  Under 
what  circumstances  would  his  merit, 
as  a  writer,  be  very  considerable? 
But,  what  follows  ?  Why  will  our  au- 
thor no  longer  insist  on  the  different 
manners  of  writers,  or  the  general  cha- 
racters of  style  ?  How  is  this  illustrated 
from  conceited  writers?  In  whatever 
class  we  rank  it,  what  is  said  of  it  ? 
Under  the  general  heads,  which  has 
been  considered,  what  has  been  done  ? 
From  what  has  been  said  on  this  sub- 
ject, what  may  be  inferred ;  and  why  ? 
Here,  for  what  must  room  be  left? 
What,  remark  follows ;  and  how  is  it 
illustrated  ?  But  for  what  can  no  pre- 
cise rule  be  given  ?  To  conclude  these 
dissertations  upon  style  in  what  man- 
ner, will  be  more  to  our  purpose  ?  What 
is  the  first  direction  given  for  this  pur- 
pose? How  is  the  necessity  of  this  di- 
rection illustrated?  On  the  intimate 
ronnexion  between  the  style  and 
thoughts  of  a  good  writer,  what  has 
several  times  been  hinted  ?  How  is  this 
illustrated  ?  What,  then,  may  we  be 
assured,  is  a  capital  rule,  as  to  style  ? 
Generally  speaking,  what  are  the  best 
±nd  most  proper  expressions?  Repeat 
what  Quintilian  says  on  this  subject. 
In  the  second  place,  in  ©rder  to  form  a 
trood  style,  what  is  indispensably  ne- 
cessary? What  remark  follows?  At 
the   same    time,    what   is    observed  ? 


What  will  be  the  effect  of  writing  fre- 
quently, carelessly  and  hastily  J  and 
what  remarks  follow?  What  says 
Quintilian,  with  the  greatest  reason  ? 
What  must  we,  however,  observe ;  and 
why  ?  Why  must  a  more  severe  ex- 
amination of  these  be  left  to  correction? 
What  disposition  should  we,  for  a  short 
time,  make  of  what  we  have  written  ? 
Then  is  the  season  for  what  ?  Of  the 
LimcB  Labor,  what  is  observed?  In 
the  third  place,  with  respect  to  the  as- 
sistance that  is  to  be  gained  from  the 
writings  of  others,  what  is  obvious  ? 
Why  is  this  requisite  ?  In  reading  au. 
thors  with  a  view  to  style,  to  what 
should  attention  be  given  ?  In  acquir- 
ing a  proper  style,  what  exercise  is 
very  useful  ?  By  that,  what  does  our 
author  mean  ?  What  will  be  the  effect 
of  such  an  exercise  ?  But,  in  the  fourth 
place,  what  caution  is  given  ?  Of  this, 
what  is  observed?  What  man  will 
never  become  a  good  writer  or  speak- 
er ?  What  should  we  particularly 
avoid  ?  What  is  the  effect  of  such  a 
habit ;  and  what  is  infinitely  better  ? 
On  these  heads,  to  do  what  is  every 
student  of  oratory  advised  ?  In  the  fifth 
place,  what  is  an  obvious,  but  material 
rule,  with  respect  to  style  ?  How  is  the 
necessity  of  this  rule  fully  illustrated  ? 
When  we  begin  to  write  or  speak,  what 
ought  we  previously  to  fix  in  our  minds? 
What  must  we  sacrifice  to  this  ?  In  the 
last  place,  what  admonition  is  given  ? 
What  says  the  Roman  critic  on  this 
subject  ?  Why  is  this  direction,  at  pre- 
sent, particularly  necessary  ?  How  is 
this  remark  fully  illustrated  ?  To  what 
is  the  public  now  much  accustomed? 
What  remark  follows  ?  WTiat  says  the 
writer  whom  our  author  has  so  often 
quoted  ? 


ANALYSIS. 
1.  Simplicity  of  style. 

a.  Simplicity  of  composition. 
e.  Simplicity  of  thought. 

c.  Simplicity  in  opposition  to  too  much 
ornament. 

d.  Simplicity  in  the  expression. 

a.  Instances  among  the  ancients  and 
the  moderns. 
2    The  vehement  style. 
3.  Directions  for  attaining  a  good  style. 

a.  We  should  study  clear  ideas  on  tho 
subject. 

b.  We  should  compose  frequently. 

c.  We  should  be  familiar  with  the  best 
authors. 

d.  We  should  avoid  servile  imitation. 

e.  We  should  adapt  our  style  to  the  sub- 
ject. 

f.  We  should   attend  less  to  our  style 
than  to  our  thoughts 


(216  ) 

LECTURE  XX. 

CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF  THE  STYLE  OF  MR. 
ADDISON,  IN  No.  411  OF  THE  SPECTATOR. 

I  have  insisted  fully  on  the  subject  of  language  and  style,  both 
because  it  is,  in  itself,  of  great  importance,  and  because  it  is  more 
capable  of  being  ascertained  by  precise  rule,  than  several  other  parts 
of  composition.  A  critical  analysis  of  the  style  of  some  good  au- 
thor will  tend  further  to  illustrate  the  subject;  as  it  will  suggest  ob- 
servations which  I  have  not  had  occasion  to  make,  and  will  show,  in 
the  most  practical  light,  the  use  of  those  which  I  have  made. 

Mr.  Addison  is  the  author  whom  I  have  chosen  for  this  purpose. 
The  Spectator,  of  which  his  papers  are  the  chief  ornament,  is  a  book 
which  is  in  the  hands  of  every  one,  and  which  cannot  be  praised  too 
highly.  The  good  sense,  and  good  writing,  the  useful  morality,  and 
the  admirable  vein  of  humour  which  abound  in  it,  render  it  one  of 
those  standard  books  which  have  done  the  greatest  honour  to  the 
English  nation.  I  have  formerly  given  the  general  character  of  Mr. 
Addison's  style  and  manner,  as  natural  and  unaffected,  easy  and  polite, 
and  full  of  those  graces  which  a  flowery  imagination  diffuses  overwri- 
ting. At  the  same  time,  though  one  of  the  most  beautiful  writers  in 
the  language,  he  is  not  the  most  correct;  a  circumstance  which  ren- 
ders his  composition  the  more  proper  to  be  the  subject  of  our  pre- 
sent criticism.  The  free  and  flowing  manner  of  this  amiable  writer 
sometimes  led  him  into  inaccuracies,  which  the  more  studied  cir- 
cumspection and  care  of  far  inferior  writers  have  taught  them  to 
avoid.  Remarking  his  beauties,  therefore,  which  I  shall  have  fre- 
quent occasion  to  do,  as  I  proceed,  I  must  also  point  out  his  negli- 
gences and  defects.  Without  a  free,  impartial  discussion,of  both  the 
faults  and  beauties  which  occur  in  his  composition,  it  is  evident,  this 
piece  of  criticism  would  be  of  no  service;  and,  from  the  freedom 
which  I  use  in  criticising  Mr.  Addison's  style,  none  can  imagine  that 
I  mean  to  depreciate  his  writings,  after  having  repeatedly  declared 
the  high  opinion  which  I  entertain  of  them.  The  beauties  of  this 
author  are  so  many,  and  the  general  character  of  his  style  is  so  ele- 
gant and  estimable,  that  the  minute  imperfections  I  shall  have  occa- 
sion to  point  out,  are  but  like  those  spots  in  the  sun, which  may  be 
discovered  by  the  assistance  of  art,  but  which  have  no  effect  in  ob- 
scuring its  lustre.  It  is,  indeed,  my  judgment,  that  what  Quintilian 
applies  to  Cicero,  '  Ille  se  profecisse  sciat,  cui  Cicero  valde  place- 
bit,'  may,  with  justice,  be  applied  to  Mr.  Addison;  that  to  be  high 
ly  pleased  with  his  manner  of  writing,  is  the  criterion  of  one's  having 
acquired  a  good  taste  in  English  style.  The  paper  on  which  we  are 
now  to  enter,  is  No.  411,  the  first  of  his  celebrated  Essays  on  the 
Pleasures  of  the  Imagination,  in  the  sixth  volume  of  the  Spectator. 
It  begins  thus: 


user,  xx.]  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION,  &c  217 

'  Our  sight  is  the  most  perfect,  and  most  delightful,  of  all  our 
senses.' 

This  is  an  excellent  introductory  sentence.     It  is  clear,  precise, 
and  simple.    The  author  lays  down,  in  a  few  plain  words,  the  propo- 
•  sition  which  he  is  going  to  illustrate  throughout  the  rest  of  the  para- 
graph.    In  this  manner,  we  should  always  set  out.    A  first  sentence 
should  seldom  be  a  long,  and  never  an  intricate  one. 

He  might  have  said, '  Our  sight  is  the  most  perfect,  and  the  mostde 
light/id.'  But  he  has  judged  better,  in  omitting  to  repeat  the  article 
the.  For  the  repetition  of  it  is  proper,  chiefly  when  we  intend  to 
point  out  the  objects  of  which  we  speak,  as  distinguished  from,  or 
contrasted  with,  each  other;  and  when  we  want  that  the  reader's  at- 
tention should  rest  on  that  distinction.  For  instance;  had  Mr.  Ad- 
dison intended  to  say,  that  our  sight  is  at  once  the  most  delightful, 
and  the  most  useful,  of  all  our  senses,  the  article  might  then  have 
been  repeated  with  propriety,  as  a  clear  and  strong  distinction  would 
have  been  conveyed.  But.as  hetween  perfect  and  delightful  there  is 
less  contrast,  there  was  no  occasion  for  such  repetition.  It  would 
have  had  no  other  effect,  but  to  add  a  word  unnecessarily  to  the  sen- 
tence.    He  proceeds: 

'  It  fills  the  mind  with  the  largest  variety  of  ideas,  converses  with 
its  objects  at  the  greatest  distance,  and  continues  the  longest  in  action, 
without  being  tired  or  satiated  with  its  proper  enjoyments.' 

This  sentence  deserves  attention,  as  remarkably  harmonious,  and 
well  constructed.  It  possesses,  indeed,  almost  all  the  properties  of  a 
perfect  sentence.  It  is  entirely  perspicuous.  It  is  loaded  with  no 
superfluous  or  unnecessary  words.  For,  tired  or  satiated,  towards  the 
end  of  the  sentence,  are  not  used  for  synonymous  terms.  They  con- 
vey distinct  ideas,  and  refer  to  different  members  of  the  period; 
that  this  sense  continues  the  longest  in  action  without  being  tired, 
that  is,  without  being  fatigued  with  its  action ;  and  also,  without  being 
satiatedwith  its  proper  enjoyments.  Thatquality  of  agood  sentence, 
which  I  termed  its  unity,  is  here  perfectly  preserved.  It  is  our 
sighl'ot  which  he  speaks.  This  is  the  object  carried  through  the 
sentence,  and  presented  to  us,  in  every  member  of  it,  by  those  verbs, 
fills,  converses,  continues,  to  each  of  which  it  is  clearly  the  nomina- 
tive. Those  capital  words  are  disposed  of  in  the  most  proper  places ; 
and  that  uniformity  is  maintained  in  the  construction  of  the  sentence, 
which  suits  the  unity  of  the  object. 

Observe,  too,  the  music  of  the  period  ;  consisting  of  three  mem- 
bers, each  of  which,  agreeable  to  a  rule  I  formerly  mentioned,  grows 
and  rises  above  the  other  in  sound,  till  the  sentence  is  conducted,  at 
last,  to  one  of  the  most  melodious  closes  which  our  language  admits; 
without  being  tired  or  satiated  ivith  its  proper  enjoyments.  Enjoy- 
ments is  a  word  of  length  and  dignity,  exceedingly  proper  for  a  close 
which  is  designed  to  be  a  musical  one.  The  harmony  is  the  more  hap- 
py, as  this  disposition  of  the  members  of  the  period  which  suits  the 
sound  so  well,  is  no  less  just  and  proper  with  xespect  to  the  sense.  It 
follows  the  order  of  nature.     First,  we  have  the  variety  of  objects 

28 


218  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF         [lect.  xx. 

mentioned,  which  sight  furnishes  to  the  mind ;  next,  we  have  the 
iction  of  sight  on  those  objects ;  and  lastly,  we  have  the  time  and 
continuance  cf  its  action.     No  order  could  be  more  natural  and 

happy. 

This  sentence  has  still  another  beauty.  It  is  figurative,  without 
being  too  much  sc  for  the  subject.  A  metaphor  runs  through  it. 
The  sense  of  sight  is,  in  some  degree,  personified.  We  are  told  of 
its  conversing  with  its  objects;  and  of  its  not  being  tired  or  satiated 
with  its  enjoyments  ;  all  which  expressions  are  plain  allusions  to  the 
actions  and  feelings  of  men.  This  is  that  slight  sort  of  personifica- 
tion which,  without  any  appearance  of  boldness,  and  without  elevat- 
ing the  fancy  much  above  its  ordinary  state,  renders  discourse 
picturesque,  and  leads  us  to  conceive  the  author's  meaning  more 
distinctly,  by  clothing  abstract  ideas,  in  some  degree,  with  sensible 
colours.  Mr.  Addison  abounds  with  this  beauty  of  style  beyond 
most  authors;  and  the  sentence  which  we  have  been  considering,  is 
very  expressive  of  his  manner  of  writing.  There  is  no  blemish  in 
it  whatever,  unless  that  a  strict  critic  might  perhaps  object,  that  the 
epithet  large,  which  he  applies  to  variety — the  largest  variety  of 
ideas,  is  an  epithet  more  commonly  applied  to  extent  than  to  num- 
ber. It  is  plain,  that  he  here  employed  it  to  avoid  the  repetition  of 
the  word  great,  which  occurs  immediately  afterwards. 

'  The  sense  of  feeling  can,  indeed,  give  us  a  notion  of  extension, 
shape,  and  all  other  ideas  that  enter  at  the  eye,  except  colours ; 
but,  at  the  same  time,  it  is  very  much  straitened  and  confined  in 
its  operations,  to  the  number,  bulk,  and  distance  of  its  particular 
objects.' 

This  sentence  is  by  no  means  so  happy  as  the  former.  It  is,  in- 
deed, neither  clear  nor  elegant.  Extension  and  shape  can,  with 
no  propriety,  be  called  ideas  ;  they  are  properties  of  matter.  Nei- 
ther is  it  accurate,  even  according  to  Mr.  Locke's  philosoph)*,  (with 
which  our  author  seems  here  to  have  puzzled  himself,)  to  speak  of 
any  sense  giving  its  a  notion  of  ideas  ;  our  senses  give  us  the  ideas 
themselves.  The  meaning  would  have  been  much  more  clear,  if 
the  author  had  expressed  himself  thus  :  'The  sense  of  feeling  can, 
indeed,  give  us  the  idea  of  extension,  figure,  and  all  the  other 
properties  of  matter  which  are  perceived  by  the  eye,  except  co- 
lours.' 

The  latter  part  of  the  sentence  is  still  more  embarrassed.  For 
what  meaning  can  we  make  of  the  sense  of  feeling,  being  confined 
in  its  operation,  to  the  number,  bulk,  and  distance,  of  its  particular 
objects?  Surely,  every  sense  is  confined,  as  much  as  the  sense  of 
feeling,  to  the  number,  bulk,  and  distance  of  its  own  objects. 
Sight  and  feeling  are,  in  this  respect,  perfectly  on  a  level ;  neither 
of  them  can  extend  beyond  its  own  objects.  The  turn  of  expres- 
sion is  so  inaccurate  here,  that  one  would  be  apt  to  suspect  two  words 
to  have  been  omitted  in  the  printing,  which  were  originally  in  Mr. 
Addison's  manuscript ;  because  the  insertion  of  them  would  render  the 
sense  much  more  intelligible  and  clear.  These  two  words  are,  with 
regard : — it  is  very  much  straitened  and  confined  in  its  operations, 


lect.  xx.l    THE  STYLE  IN  SPECTATOR,  No.  411.        219 

with  regard  to  the  number,  bulk,  and  distance  of  its  particular  ob- 
jects. The  meaning  then  would  be,  that  feeling  is  more  limited 
than  sight  in  this  respect ;  that  it  is  confined  to  a  narrower  circle,  to 
a  smaller  number  of  objects. 

The  epithetparticular,  applied  to  objects,  in  the  conclusion  of  the 
sentence,  is  redundant,  and  conveys  no  meaning  whatever.  Mr. 
Addison  seems  to  have  used  it  in  place  of  peculiar,  as  indeed  he 
does  often  in  other  passages  of  his  writings.  But  particular  and  pe- 
culiar, though  they  are  too  often  confounded,  are  words  of  dif- 
ferent import  from  each  other.  Particular  stands  opposed  to  gene- 
ral; peculiar  stands  opposed  to  what  is  possessed  in  ctmmon  toith 
others.  Particular,  expresses  what,  in  the  logical  style,  is  called 
species  ;  peculiar,  what  is  called  differentia.  Its  peculiar  objtcts, 
would  have  signified,  in  this  place,  the  objects  of  the  sense  of  ftel- 
ing,  as  distinguished  from  the  objects  of  any  other  sense;  and 
would  have  had  more  meaning  than  its  particular  objects  ;  though, 
in  truth,  neither  the  one  nor  the  other  epithet  was  requisite.  It  was 
sufficient  to  have  said  simply,  its  objects. 

'Our  sight  seems  designed  to  supply  all  these  defects,  and  may 
be  considered  as  a  more  delicate  and  diffusive  kind  of  touch,  that 
spreads  itself  over  an  infinite  multitude  of  bodies,  comprehends 
the  largest  figures,  and  brings  into  our  reach  some  of  the  most  re- 
mote parts  of  the  universe.' 

Here  again  the  author's  style  returns  upon  us  in  all  its  beaut) . 
This  is  a  sentence  distinct,  graceful,  well  arranged,  and  highly  mu- 
sical. In  the  latter  part  of  it,  it  is  constructed  with  three  members, 
which  are  formed  much  in  the  same  manner  with  those  of  the  second 
sentence,  on  which  I  bestowed  so  much  praise.  The  construction  is 
so  similar,  that  if  it  had  followed  immediately  after  it,  we  should 
have  been  sensible  of  a  faulty  monotony.  But  the  interposition  of 
another  sentence  between  them,  prevents  this  effect. 

'It  is  this  sense  which  furnishes  the  imagination  wiia  its  ideas; 
so  that  by  the  pleasures  of  the  imagination  or  fancy,  (which  I  shall 
use  promiscuously,)  I  here  mean  such  as  arise  from  visible  objects, 
either  when  we  have  them  actually  in  our  view;  or  when  we  call 
up  their  ideas  into  our  minds  by  paintings,  statues,  descriptions, 
or  any  the  like  occasion.' 

In  place  of,  It  is  this  sense  which  furnishes,  the  author  might  have 
said  more  shortly,  This  sense  furnishes.  But  the  mode  of  expres- 
sion which  he  has  used,  is  here  more  proper.  This  sort  of  full  and 
ample  assertion,  it  is  this  ivhich,  is  fit  to  be  used  when  a  proposition 
of  importance  is  laid  down,  to  which  we  seek  to  call  the  reader's 
attention.  It  is  like  pointing  with  the  hand  at  the  object  of  which 
we  speak.  The  parenthesis  in  the  middle  of  the  sentence,  which 
I  shall  use  promiscuously,  is  not  clear.  He  ought  to  have  said, 
terms  which  I  shall  use  promiscuously ;  as  the  verb  use  relates  not  to 
the  pleasures  of  the  imagination,  but  to  the  terms  of  fancy  and 
imagination,  which  he  was  to  employ  as  synonymous.  Any  the 
Hke  occasion.  To  call  a  painting  or  a  statue  an  occasion,  is  not.  a  hap- 
py expression,  nor  is  it  very  proper  to  speak  oicalliyig  up  ideas  by 


220  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF      [lect.  xx 

occasions.    The  common  phrase,  any  such  means,  would  have  been 
more  natural. 

'We  cannot  indeed  have  a  single  image  in  the  fancy,  that  did 
not  make  its  first  entrance  through  the  sight;  but  we  have  the 
power  of  retaining,  altering,  and  compounding  those  images  which 
we  have  once  received,  into  all  the  varieties  of  picture  and  vision 
that  are  most  agreeable  to  the  imagination;  for,  by  this  faculty,  a 
man  in  a  dungeon  is  capable  of  entertaining  himself  with  scenes 
and  landscapes  more  beautiful  than  any  that  can  be  found  in  the 
wnole  compass  of  nature/ 

It  may  be  of  use  to  remark,  that  in  one  member  of  this  sentence, 
there  is  an  inaccuracy  in  syntax.  It  is  very  proper  to  say,  altering 
and  compounding  those  images  which  we  have  once  received,  into  all 
the  varieties  of  picture  and  vision.  But  we  can  with  no  propriety  say, 
retaining  them  into  all  the  varieties;  and  yet,  according  to  the  man- 
ner in  which  the  words  are  ranged,  this  construction  is  unavoidable 
For  retaining,  altering,  and  compounding,  are  participles,  each  of 
which  equally  refers  to,  and  governs,  the  subsequent  noun,  those 
images ;  and  that  noun  again  is  necessarily  connected  with  the  fol- 
lowing preposition,  into.  This  instance  shows  the  importance  of 
carefully  attending  to  the  rules  of  grammar  and  syntax;  when  so 
pure  a  writer  as  Mr.  Addison  could,  through  inadvertence,  be  guilty 
of  such  an  error.  The  construction  might  easily  have  been  recti- 
fied, by  disjoining  the  participle  retaining  from  the  other  two  parti- 
ciples, in  this  way:  'We  have  the  power  of  retaining,  altering,  and 
compounding  those  images  which  we  have  once  received  $  and  of 
forming  them  into  all  the  varieties  of  picture  and  vision.'  Thelat 
ter  part  of  the  sentence  is  clear  and  elegant. 

1  There  are  few  words  in  the  English  language  which  are  employ 
ed  in  a  more  loose  and  uncircumseribed  sense,  than  those  of  the 
fancy  and  the  imagination.' 

There  a?  'few  words — which  are  employed.  It  had  been  better,  if 
our  author  here  had  said  more  simply,  few  ivords  in  the  English 
language  are  employed.  Mr.  Addison,  whose  style  is  of  the  free  and 
full,  rather  than  the  nervous  kind,  deals,  on  all  occasions,  in  this 
extended  sort  of  phraseology.  But  it  is  proper  only  when  some  as- 
sertion of  consequence  is  advanced,  and  which  can  bear  an  empha- 
sis; such  as  that  in  the  first  sentence  of  the  former  paragraph.  On 
other  occasions,  these  little  words,  it  is,  and  there  are,  ought  to  be 
avoided  as  redundant  and  enfeebling.  Those  of  the  fancy  and  the 
imagination.  The  article  ought  to  have  been  omitted  here.  As  he 
does  not  mean  the  powers  of the  fancy  and  the  imagination,  but  the 
words  only,  the  article  certainly  had  no  proper  place;  neither,  in- 
deed, was  there  any  occasion  for  the  other  two  words,  those  of 
Better  if  the  sentence  had  run  thus:  'Few  words  in  the  Englisn. 
language  are  employed  in  a  more  loose  and  uncircumseribed  sense , 
than  fancy  and  imagination.' 

*I  therefore  thought  it  necessary  to  fix  and  determine  the  notion 
of  these  two  words,  as  I  intend  to  make  use  of  them  in  the  thread  of 


lect.  xx.]    THE  STYLE  IN  SPECTATOR,  No  411.         221 

my  following  speculations,  that  the  reader  may  conceive  righthy 
what  is  the  subject  which  I  proceed  upon.' 

Though^?  and  determine  may  appear  synonymous  words,  yet  a 
difference  between  them  may  be  remarked,  and  they  may  be  view- 
ed, as  applied  here,  with  peculiar  delicacy.  The  author  had  just 
said,  that  the  words  of  which  he  is  speaking  were  loose  and  uncir- 
rumscribed.  Fix  relates  to  the  first  of  these,  determine  to  the  last. 
We  fix  what  is  loose;  that  is,  we  confine  the  word  to  its  proper  place, 
that  it  may  not  fluctuate  in  our  imagination,  and  pass  from  one  idea 
to  another ;  and  we  determine  what  is  uncircumscribed,  that  is,  we  as- 
certain its  termini  or  limits,  we  draw  the  circle  round  it,  that  we  may 
see  its  boundaries.  For  we  cannot  conceive  the  meaning  of  a  word, 
or  indeed  of  any  other  thing  clearly,  till  we  see  its  limits,  and  know 
how  far  it  extends.  These  two  words,  therefore,  have  grace  and 
beauty  as  they  are  here  applied;  though  a  writer,  more  frugal  of 
words  than  Mr.  Addison,  would  have  preferred  the  single  word 
ascertain,  which  conveys,  without  any  metaphor,  the  import  of  them 
^oth. 

The  notion  of  these  words,  is  somewhat  of  a  harsh  phrase,  at  least 
tiotso  commonly  used,  as  the  meaning  of  these  tvords;—as  I  intend 
to  make  useofthemin  the  threadofmy  speculations;  this  is  plainly 
faulty.  A  sort  of  metaphor  is  improperly  mixed  with  words  in  the 
/iteral  sense.  He  might  very  well  have  said,  as  /intend  to  make 
ttse  of  them  in  my  following  speculations.  This  was  plain  language ; 
but  if  he  chose  to  borrow  an  allusion  from  thread,  that  allusion  ought 
to  have  been  supported  ;  for  there  is  no  consistency  in  making  use 
of  them  in  the  thread  of  speculations;  and  indeed,  in  expressing  any 
thing  so  simple  and  familiar  as  this  is,  plain  language  is  always  to 
be  preferred  to  metaphorical — the  subject  which  1 proceed upon,  is  an 
ungi  iceful  close  of  a  sentence ;  better  the  subject  upon  which  [pro- 
ceed. 

'  I  must  therefore  desire  him  to  remember,  that,  by  the  plea- 
sures of  the  imagination,  I  mean  only  such  pleasures  as  arise  origi- 
nally from  sight,  and  that  I  divide  these  pleasures  into  two  kinds.' 

As  the  last  sentence  began  with,  I  therefore  thought  it  necessary  to 
fix,  it  is  careless  to  begin  this  sentence  in  a  manner  so  very  similar, 
I  must  therefore  desire  him  to  rem  ember;  especially,  as  the  small  va- 
riation of  using,  on  this  account,  or,  for  thisreason,  in  place  of  there- 
fore, would  have  amended  the  style.  When  he  says,  /  mean  only 
such  pleasures,  it  may  be  remarked,  that  the  adverb  only  is  not  in 
its  proper  place.  It  is  not  intended  here  to  qualify  the  word  mean, 
but  such  pleasures;  and  therefore  should  have  been  placed  in  as  close 
a  connexion  as  possible  with  the  word  which  it  limits  or  qualifies. 
The  style  becomes  more  clear  and  neat,  when  the  words  are  arrang- 
ed thus;  'By  the  pleasures  of  the  imagination,  I  mean  such  plea- 
sures only  as  arise  from  sight.' 

'My  design,  being  first  of  all,  to  discourse  of  those  primary  plea- 
sures of  the  imagination,  which  entirely  proceed  from  such  objects 
as  are  before  our  eyes;  and,  in  the  next  place,  to  speak  of  those 
secondary  pleasures  of  the  imagination,  which  flow  from  the  ideas 
2K 


223  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF     [lect.  a. 

Df  visible  objects,  when  the  objects  are  not  actually  before  the  eye. 
out  are  called  up  into  our  memories,  or  formed  into  agreeable 
visions  of  things,  that  are  either  absent  or  fictitious.' 

It  is  a  great  rule  in  laying;  down  the  division  of  a  subject,  to  study 
neatness  and  brevity  as  much  as  possible.  The  divisions  are  then 
more  distinctly  apprehended,  and  more  easily  remembered.  This 
sentence  is  not  perfectly  happy  in  that  respect.  It  is  somewhat 
clogged  by  a  tedious  phraseology.  My  design  being  first  of  all,  to 
discourse— in  the  next  place  to  speak  of— such  objects  as  are  before  our 
eyes-things  that  are  either  absent  or  fictitious.  Several  words  might 
have  been  spared  here;  and  the  style  made  more  neat  and  compact 

'The  pleasures  of  the  imagination,  taken  in  their  full  extent,  are 
not  so  gross  as  those  of  sense,  nor  so  refined  as  those  of  the  under- 
standing.' 

This  sentence  is  distinct  and  elegant. 

'  The  last  are  indeed  more  preferable,  because  they  are  founded 
on  some  new  knowledge  or  improvement  in  the  mind  of  man :  yet  it 
must  be  confessed,  that  those  of  the  imagination  are  as  great  and  as 
transporting  as  the  other.' 

In  the  beginning  of  this  sentence,.the  phrase  more  preferable,  is 
such  a  plain  inaccuracy,  that  one  wonders  how  Mr.  Addison  should 
have  fallen  into  it ;  seeing  preferable,  of  itself,  expresses  the  compara- 
tive degree,  and  isathe  same  with  more  eligible,  or  more  excellent. 

I  must  observe  farther,  that  the  proposition  contained  in  the  last 
member  of  this  sentence,  is  neither  clear  nor  neatly  expressed — it 
must  be  confessed,  that  those  of  the  imagination  are  as  great  and  as 
transporting  as  the  other.  In  the  former  sentence,  he  had  compared 
three  things  together ;  the  pleasures  of  the  imagination,  those  of  sense, 
and  those  of  the  understanding.  In  the  beginning  of  this  sentence, 
he  had  called  the  pleasures  of  the  understanding  the  last ;  and  he 
ends  the  sentence,  with  observing,  that  those  of  the  imagination  are 
as  great  and  transporting  as  the  other.  Now,  besides  that  the  other 
makes  not  a  proper  contrast  with  the  last,  he  leaves  it  ambiguous, 
whether,  by  the  other,  he  meant  the  pleasures  of  the  understanding, 
or  the  pleasures  of  the  sense;  for  it  may  refer  to  either,  by  the  con- 
struction; though,  undoubtedly,  he  intended  that  it  should  refer  to 
the  pleasures  of  the  understanding  only.  The  proposition  reduced 
to  perspicuous  language,  runs  thus:  'Yet  it  must  be  confessed,  that 
the  pleasures  of  the  imagination,  when  compared  with  those  of  the 
understanding,  are  no  less  great  and  transporting.' 

'  A  beautiful  prospect  delights  the  soul  as  much  as  ademonstration 
and  a  description  in  Homer  has  charmed  more  readers  than  a  chap 
ter  in  Aristotle.' 

This  is  a  good  illustration  of  what  he  had  been  asserting,  and  Is 
expressed  with  that  happy  and  elegant  turn,  for  which  our  author  is 
very  remarkable. 

*  Besides,  the  pleasures  of  the  imagination  have  this  advantage 
above  those  of  the  understanding,  that  they  are  more  obvious,  and 
more  easy  to  be  acoxuired.' 

This  is  also  an  unexceptionable  sentence 


iect.xx.]    THE  STYLE  IN  SPECTATOR,  No.  411.  223 

'It  is  but  opening  the  eye,  and  the  scene  enters.' 

This  sentence  is  lively  and  picturesque.  By  the  gayety  and  brisk- 
ness which  it  gives  the  style,  it  shows  the  advantage  of  intermixing 
such  a  short  sentence  as  this  amidst  a  run  of  longer  ones,  which  never 
fails  to  have  a  happy  effect.  I  must  remark,  however,  a  small  inac- 
curacy. A  scene  cannot  be  said  to  enter :  an  actor  enters ;  but  a 
scene  appears  or  presents  itself. 

'  The  colours  paint  themselves  on  the  fancy,  with  very  little  attec 
tion  of  thought  or  application  of  mind  in  the  beholder.' 

This  is  still  beautiful  illustration;  carried  on  with  that  agreeable 
floweriness  of  fancy  and  style,  which  is  so  well  suited  to  those  plea- 
sures of  the  imagination,  of  which  the  author  is  treating. 

( We  are  struck,  we  know  not  how,  with  the  symmetry  of  any 
thing  we  see,  and  immediately  assent  to  the  beauty  of  an  object, 
without  inquiring  into  the  particular  causes  and  occasions  of  it.' 

There  is  a  falling  off  here  from  the  elegance  of  the  former  sen- 
tences. We  assent  to  the  truth  of  a  proposition ;  but  cannot  so  well 
be  said/o assent  to  thebeauty  of 'an object.  Jlcknoivledge  would  have 
expressed  the  sense  with  more  propriety.  The  close  of  the  sentence 
too  is  heavy  and  ungraceful — the  particular  causes  and  occasions  of 
it;  both  particular  and  occasions,  are  words  quite  superfluous ;  and  the 
pronoun  it,  is  in  some  measure  ambiguous,  whether  it  refers  to  beau 
ty  or  to  object.  It  would  have  been  some  amendment  to  tht  style  to 
have  run  thus  :  '  We  immediately  acknowledge  the  beauty  of  an 
object,  without  inquiring  into  the  cause  of  that  beauty.' 

'A  man  of  a  polite  imagination  is  let  into  a  great  many  pleasures 
that  the  vulgar  are  not  capable  of  receiving.' 

Polite  is  a  term  more  commonly  applied  to  manners  or  behaviour, 
than  to  the  mind  or  imagination.  There  is  nothing  farther  to  be  ob- 
served on  this  sentence,  unless  the  use  of  that  for  a  relative  pro- 
noun, instead  of  which  ;  an  usage  which  is  too  frequent  with  Mr.  Addi- 
son. Which  is  a  much  more  definitive  word  than  that,  being  never 
employed  in  any  other  way  than  as  a  relative ;  whereas  that  is  a  word 
of  many  senses ;  sometimes  a  demonstrative  pronoun,  often  a  con- 
junction. In  some  cases  we  are  indeed  obliged  to  use  that  for  a  re- 
lative, in  order  to  avoid  the  ungraceful  repetition  of  which  in  the 
same  sentence.  But  when  we  are  laid  under  no  necessity  of  this  kind, 
which  is  always  the  preferable  word,  and  certainly  was  so  in  this  sen- 
tence. Pleasures  which  the  vulgar  are  not  capable  of  receiving,  is 
much  better  than  pleasures  that  the  vulgar,  fyc. 

'  He  can  converse  with  a  picture,  and  find  an  agreeable  companion 
in  a  statue.  He  meets  with  a  secret  refreshment  in  a  description ; 
and  often  feels  a  greater  satisfaction  in  the  prospect  of  fields  and 
meadows,  than  another  does  in  the  possession.  It  gives  him,  indeed, 
a  kind  of  property  in  every  thing  he  sees  ;  and  makes  the  most  rude, 
uncultivated  parts  of  nature, administer  to  his  pleasures:  so  that  he 
looks  upon  the  world,  as  it  were,  in  another  light,  and  discovers  in  it 
«  multitude  of  charms  that  conceal  themselves  from  the  generality 
of  mankind  '* 


824  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF  [lect.  xx 

All  this  is  very  beautiful.  The  illustration  is  happy;  and  the  style 
«uns  with  the  greatest  ease  and  harmony.  We  see  no  labour,  no 
stiffness  or  affectation;  but  an  author  writing  from  the  native  flow 
of  a  gay  and  pleasing  imagination.  This  predominant  character  of 
Mr.  Addison's  manner,  far  more  than  compensates  all  those  little 
negligences  which  we  are  now  remarking.  Two  of  these  occur  in 
this  paragraph.  The  first,  in  the  sentence  which  begins  with,  it  gives 
him  indeed  a  kind  of  property.  To  this  it,  there  is  no  proper  antece- 
dent in  the  whole  paragraph.  In  order  to  gather  the  meaning,  we 
must  look  back  as  far  as  to  the  third  sentence  before,  the  first  of  the 
paragraph,  which  begins  with,  a  man  of  a  polite  imagination.  This 
phrase,  polite  imagination,  is  the  only  antecedent  to  which  this  it 
can  refer;  and  even  that  is  an  improper  antecedent,  as  it  stands  in 
the  genitive  case,  as  the  qualification  only  of  a  man. 

The  other  instance  of  negligence,  is  towards  the  end  of  the  para- 
graph, so  that  he  looks  iipo?i  theioorld,  as  it  ivere,in  another  light.  By 
another  light,  Mr.  Addison  means,  a  light  different  from  that  in 
which  other  men  view  the  world.  But  though  this  expression  clear- 
ly conveyed  this  meaning  to  himself  when  writing,  it  conveys  it 
very  indistinctly  to  others;  and  is  an  instance  of  that  sort  of  in- 
accuracy, into  which,  in  the  warmth  of  composition,  every  writer 
of  a  lively  imagination  is  apt  to  fall ;  and  which  can  only  be  remedied 
by  a  cool,  subsequent  review.  »fls  it  were,  is  upon  most  occasions  no 
more  than  an  ungraceful  palliative;  and  here  there  was  not  the  least 
occasion  for  it,  as  he  was  not  about  to  say  any  thing  which  required  a 
softening  of  this  kind.  To  say  the  truth,  this  last  sentence,  so  that  he 
looks  upon  thetvorld,  and  what  follows,  had  better  been  wanting  alto- 
gether. It  is  no  more  than  an  unnecessary  recapitulation  of  what 
had  gone  before  ;  a  feeble adjection  to  the  lively  picture  he  had  given 
of  the  pleasures  of  the  imagination.  The  paragraph  would  have  ended 
with  more  spirit  at  the  words  immediately  preceding ;  the  uncul- 
tivated parts  of  nature  ad?ninister  to  his  pleasures. 

'There  are,  indeed,  but  very  few  who  know  how  to  be  idle  and 
innocent,  or  have  a  relish  of  any  pleasures  that  are  not  criminal ; 
every  diversion  they  take,  is  at  the  expense  of  some  one  virtue 
or  another,  and  their  very  first  step  out  of  business  is  into  vice  or 
folly.' 

Nothing  can  be  more  elegant,  or  more  finely  turned,  than  this  sen- 
tence. It  is  neat,  clear,  and  musical.  We  could  hardly  alter  one 
wori,  or  disarrange  one  member,  without  spoiling  it.  Fewsentences 
are  to  be  found  more  finished,  or  more  happy. 

'  A  man  should  endeavour,  therefore,  to  make  the  sphere  of  his 
innocent  pleasures  as  wide  as  possible,  that  he  may  retire  into  them 
with  safety,  and  find  in  them  such  a  satisfaction  as  a  wise  man  would 
not  blush  to  take/ 

This  also  is  a  good  sentence,  and  gives  occasion  to  no  material  re- 
mark. 

'  Of  this  nature  are  those  of  the  imagination,  which  do  not  require 
such  a  bent  of  thought  as  is  necessary  to  our  more  serious  employ 
ments.  nor  at  the  same  time,  suffer  the  mind  to  sink  into  that  indo 


t.ect.  xx.]    THE  STTLE  IN  SPECTATOR,  No.  411.  225 

lence  and  remissness,  which  are  apt  to  accompany  our  more  sensua. 
delights;  but  like  a  gentle  exercise  to  the  faculties,  awaken  them 
from  sloth  and  idleness,  without  putting  them  upon  any  labour  or  dif- 
ficulty.' 

The  beginning  of  this  sentence  is  not  correct,  and  affords  an  in- 
stance of  a  period  too  loosely  connected  with  the  preceding  one.  Of 
this  nature,  says  he,  are  those  of  the  imagination.  We  might  ask, 
of  what  nature?  For  it  had  not  been  the  scope  of  the  preceding  sen- 
tence to  describe  the  nature  of  any  set  of  pleasures.  He  had  said, 
that  it  was  every  man's  duty  to  make  the  sphere  of  his  innocent  plea- 
sures as  wide  as  possible,  in  order  that,  within  that  sphere,  he  might 
find  a  safe  retreat,  and  a  laudable  satisfaction.  The  transition  is 
loosely  made,  by  beginning  the  next  sentence  with  saying,  of  this  na- 
tureare  those  of  the  imagination.  It  had  been  better,  if,  keeping  in 
view  the  governing  object  of.  the  preceding  sentence,  he  hud  said, 
'This  advantage  we  gain,'  or,  'This  satisfaction  we  enjoy,  by  means 
of  the  pleasures  of  imagination.'  The  rest  of  the  sentence  is  abun- 
dantly correct. 

'We  might  here  add,  that  the  pleasures  of  the  fancy  are  more  con- 
ducive to  health  than  those  of  the  understanding,  which  are  worked 
out  by  dint  of  thinking,  and  attended  with  too  violent  a  labour  of  the 
brain.' 

On  this  sentence,  nothing  occurs  deserving  of  remark,  except  that 
worked  out  by  dint  ofthinking,\s  a  phrase  which  borders  too  much 
on  vulgar  and  colloquial  language,  to  be  proper  for  being  employed 
in  a  polished  composition 

'  Delightful  scenes,  whether  in  nature,  painting,  or  poetry,  have  a 
kindly  influence  on  the  body,  as  well  as  the  mind,  and  not  only  sei  ve 
to  clear  and  brighten  the  imagination,  but  are  able  to  disperse  grief 
and  melancholy,  and  to  set  tbe  animal  spirits  in  pleasing  and  agree- 
able motions.  Fo.  this  reason,  Sir  Francis  Bacon,  in  his  Essay  up- 
on Health,  has  not  thought  it  improper  to  prescribe  to  his  reader  a 
poem,  or  a  prospect,  where  he  particularly  dissuades  him  from  knot- 
ty and  subtile  disquisitions,  and  advises  him  to  pursue  studies  that  fill 
the  mind  with  splendid  and  illustrious  objects,  as  histories,  fables, 
and  contemplations  of  nature.' 

In  the  latter  of  these  two  sentences,  a  member  of  the  period  is 
altogether  out  of  its  place ;  which  gives  the  whole  sentence  a  harsh 
and  disjointed  cast,  and  serves  to  illustrate  the  rules  I  formerly  gave 
concerning  arrangement.  The  wrong-placed  member  which  I 
point  at,  is  this:  where  he  particularly  dissuades  him  from  knotty 
and  subtile  disquisitions;  these  words  should  undoubtedly  have  been 
placed  not  where  the)*-  stand,  but  thus :  Sir  Francis  Bacon,  in  his  Essay 
upon  Health,  where  he  particularly  dissuades  the  reader  from  knot- 
ty and  subtile  speculations,  has  not  thought  it  improper  to  prescribe 
to  him,  6,-c.    This  arrangement  reduces  every  thing  into  proper  order. 

'  I  have  in  this  paper,  by  way  of  introduction,  settled  the  notion  of 
those  pleasures  of  the  imagination,  which  are  the  subject  of  my  pre- 
sent undertaking,  and  endeavoured,  by  several  considerations,  to  re- 

29 


226  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF         [lect.  xxi 

commend  to  my  readers  the  pursuit  of  those  pleasures;  I  shall,  m 
my  next  paper,  examine  the  several  sources  from  whence  these  plea- 
sures are  derived.' 

These  two  concluding  sentences  afford  examples  of  the  pro],er 
collocation  of  circumstances  in  a  period.  I  formerly  showed,  that 
it  is  often  a  matter  of  difficulty  to  dispose  of  them  in  such  a  manner, 
as  that  they  shall  not  embarrass  the  principal  subject  of  the  sentence. 
In  the  sentences  before  us,  several  of  these  incidental  circumstances 
necessarily  come  in — By  ivay  of  introduction — by  several  consider- 
ations— in  this  paper — in  the  next  paper.  All  which  are  with 
great  propriety  managed  by  our  author.  It  will  be  found,  upon  trial, 
that  there  were  no  other  parts  of  the  sentence,  in  which  they  could 
have  been  placed  to  equal  advantage.  Had  he  said,  for  instance,  'I 
have  settled  the  notion,  (rather,  the  meaning)  of  those  pleasures  of 
the  imagination,  which  are  the  subject  of  my  present  undertaking, 
by  way  of  introduction,  in  this  paper,  and  endeavoured  to  recommend 
the  pursuit  of  those  pleasures  to  my  readers,  by  several  consider- 
ations/ we  must  be  sensible,  that  the  sentence,  thus  clogged  with  cir- 
cumstances in  the  wrong  place,  would  neither  have  been  so  neat  nor 
so  clear,  as  it  is  by  the  present  construction. 


LECTURE  XXI. 


CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF  THE  STYLE  IN  No.  412 
OF  THE  SPECTATOR. 

The  observations  which  have  occurred  in  reviewing  that  paper  oi 
Mr.  Addison's  which  was  the  subject  of  the  last  lecture,  sufficiently 
show,  that  in  the  writings  of  an  author,  of  the  most  happy  genius, 
and  distinguished  talents,  inaccuracies  may  sometimes  be  found. 
Though  such  inaccuracies  may  be  overbalanced  by  so  many  beau- 
ties, as  render  style  highly  pleasing  and  agreeable  upon  the  whole, 
yet  it  must  be  desirable  to  every  writer  to  avoid,  as  far  as  he  can,  in- 
accuracy of  any  kind.  As  t':a  subject,  therefore,  is  of  importance,  I 
have  thought  it  might  be  useful  to  carry  on  this  criticism  throughout 
two  or  three  subsequent  papers  of  the  Spectator.  At  the  same  time. 
I  must  intimate,  that  the  lectures  on  these  papers  are  solely  intended 
lor  such  as  are  applying  themselves  to  the  study  of  English  style.  I 
pretend  not  to  give  instruction  to  those  who  are  already  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  powers  of  language.  To  them  my  remarks  may 
prove  unedifying;  to  some  they  may  seem  tedious  and  minute:  but 
to  such  as  have  not  yet  made  all  the  proficiency  which  they  desire 
in  elegance  of  style,  strict  attention  to  the  composition  and  structure 
of  sentences  cannot  fail  to  prove  of  considerable  benefit;  and  though 
my  remarks  on  Mr.  Addison  should,  in  any  instance,  be  thought  lll- 
founded,  they  will  at  least,  serve  the  purpose  of  leading  them  into 


i.ect.  xxi.]    THE  STYJ  I  i«  SPECTATOR,  No.  41 2.         227 

*he  train  of  makiug  j,.-oper  remarks  for  themselves.       I  proceed, 
therefore,  to  the  examination  of  the  subsequent  paper,  No.  412. 

'I  shall  first  consider  those  pleasures  of  the  imagination,  which 
arise  from  the  actual  view  and  survey  of  outward  objects :  and  these, 
I  think,  all  proceed  from  the  sight  of  what  is  great,  uncommon,  or 
beautiful.7 

This  sentence  gives  occasion  for  no  material  remark.  It  is  simple 
and  distinct.  The  two  words  which  he  here  uses,  vieio  and  survey, 
are  not  altogether  synonymous ;  as  the  former  may  be  supposed  to 
import  mere  inspection ;  the  latter,  more  deliberate  examination. 
Yet  they  lie  so  near  to  one  another  in  meaning,  that,  in  the  present 
case,  any  one  of  them,  perhaps,  would  have  been  sufficient.  The 
epithet  actual,  is  introduced,  in  order  to  mark  more  strongly  the 
distinction  between  what  our  author  calls  the  primary  pleasures  of 
imagination,  which  arise  from  immediate  view,  and  the  secondary, 
which  arise  from  remembrance  or  description. 

'There  may,  indeed,  be  something  so  terrible  or  offensive,  that 
the  horror,  or  loathsomeness  of  an  object,  may  overbear  the 
pleasure  which  results  from  its  novelty,  greatness,  or  beauty ;  but 
still  there  will  be  such  a  mixture  of  delight  in  the  very  disgust  it 
gives  us,  as  any  of  these  three  qualifications  are  most  conspicuous 
and  prevailing.' 

This  sentence  must  be  acknowledged  to  be  an  unfortunate  one. 
The  sense  is  obscure  and  embarrassed,  and  the  expression  loose  and 
irregular.  The  beginning  of  it  is  perplexed  by  the  wrong  position 
of  the  words  something  and  object.  The  natural  arrangement  would 
have  been,  there  may,  indeed,  be  something  in  an  object  so  terrible  or 
offensive,  that  the  horror  or  loathsomeness  of  it  may  overbear.  These 
two  epithets,  horror  or  loathsomeness,  are  awkwardly  joined  toge- 
ther. Loathsomeness,  is  indeed  a  quality  which  may  be  ascribed  to 
an  object ;  but  horror  is  not ;  it  is  a  feeling  excited  in  the  mind.  The 
language  would  have  been  much  more  correct,  had  our  author  said, 
there  may,  indeed,  be  something  in  an  object  so  terrible  or  offensive, 
that  the  horror  or  disgust  which  it  excites  may  overbear.  The  first 
two  epithets,  terrible  or  offensive,  would  then  have  expressed  the 
qualities  of  an  object;  the  latter,  horror  or  disgust,  the  correspond- 
ing sentiments  which  these  qualities  produce  in  us.  Loathsomeness 
was  the  most  unhappy  word  he  could  have  chosen :  for  to  be  loath- 
some, is  to  be  odious,  and  seems  totally  to  exclude  any  mixture  oj 
delight,  which  he  afterwards  supposes  may  be  found  in  the  object. 

*  If  there  be  readers  who  think  any  farther  apology  requisite  for  my  adventuring 
to  criticise  the  sentences  of  so  eminent  an  author  as  Mr.  Addison,  I  must  take  no- 
tice, that  I  was  naturally  led  to  it  by  the  circumstances  of  that  part  of  the  king- 
dom where  these  lectures  were  read ;  where  the  ordinary  spoken  language 
often  differs  much  from  what  is  used  by  good  English  authors.  Hence  it  occurred 
to  me,  as  a  proper  method  of  correcting  any  peculiarities  of  dialect,  to  direct  stu- 
dents of  eloquence  to  analyze  and  examine,  with  particular  attention,  the  struc- 
ture of  Mr.  Addison's  sentences.  Those  papers  of  the  Spectator,  which  are  the 
subject  of  the  following  lectures,  were  accordingly  given  out  in  exercise  to  stu 
dents,  to  be  thus  examined  and  analyzed ;  and  several  of  the  observations  which 
follow,  both  on  the  beauties  and  blemishes  of  this  author,  were  suggested  by  the  obser 
rations  given  te  nae  in  consequence  of  the  exercises  prescribed. 


223  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF         [lect.  xxi 

In  the  latter  part  of  the  sentence  there  are  several  inaccuracies. 
When  he  says,  there  will  be  such  a  mixture  of  delight  in  the  very 
disgust  it  gives  its,  as  any  of  these  three  qualifications  are  most 
conspicuous.  The  construction  is  defective,  and  seems  haidly 
grammatical.  He  meant  assuredly  to  say,  such  a  mixture  of  de- 
light as  is  proportioned  to  the  degree  in  which  any  of  these  three 
qualifications  are  conspicuous.  We  know  that  there  may  be  a 
mixture  of  pleasant  and  of  disagreeable  feelings  excited  by  the  same 
object;  yet  it  appears  inaccurate  to  say,  that  there  is  any  delight  in 
the  very  disgust.  The  plural  verb,  are,  is  improperly  joined  to 
any  of  these  three  qualifications  ;  for  as  any  is  here  used  distribu- 
tively,  and  means  any  one  of  these  three  qualifications,  the  cor- 
responding verb  ought  to  have  been  singular.  The  order  in  which 
the  two  last  words  are  placed,  should  have  been  reversed,  and  made 
to  stand  prevailing  and  conspicuous.  They  are  conspicuous,  be- 
cause they  prevail. 

'By  greatness,  I  do  not  only  mean  the  bulk  of  any  single  object, 
but  the  largeness  of  a  whole  view,  considered  as  one  entire  piece.' 

In  a  former  lecture,  when  treatingof  the  structure  of  sentences,  i 
quoted  this  sentence  as  an  instance  of  the  careless  manner  in  which 
adverbs  are  sometimes  interjected  in  the  midst  of  a  period.  Only, 
as  it  is  here  placed,  appears  to  be  a  limitation  of  the  following  verb, 
mean.  The  question  might  be  put,  what  more  does  he  than  only 
mean? As  the  author  undoubtedly  intended  it  to  refer  to  the  bulk  of 
a  single  object,  it  would  have  been  placed  with  more  propriety  aftei 
these  words:  Idonotmean  thebulk  of  any  single  object  only , but  the 
largeness  of  a  whole  view.  As  the  following  phrase,  considered  as 
one  entire  piece,  seems  to  be  somewhat  deficient,  both  in  dignity  and 
propriety,  perhaps  this  adjection  might  have  been  altogether  omit- 
ted, and  the  sentence  have  closed  with  fully  as  much  advantage  at 
the  word  view. 

i  Such  are  the  prospects  of  an  open  champaign  country,  a  vast  un- 
cultivated desert,  of  huge  heaps  of  mountains,  high  rocks  and  preci- 
pices, or  a  wide  expanse  of  waters,  where  we  are  not  struck  with  the 
novelty,  or  beauty  of  the  sight,  but  with  that  rude  kind  of  magnifi- 
cence which  appears  in  many  of  these  stupendous  works  of  nature/ 

This  sentence,  in  the  main,  is  beautiful.  The  objects  presented 
are  all  of  them  noble,  selected  with  judgment,  arranged  with  pro- 
priety, and  accompanied  with  proper  epithets.  We  must,  however, 
observe,  that  the  sentence  is  too  loosely,  and  not  very  grammatically 
connected  with  the  preceding  one.  He  says,  such  are  the  pros- 
vects ;  such,  signifies  of  that  nature  or  quality;  which  necessarily 
presupposes  some  adjective,  or  word  descriptive  of  a  quality  going 
before,  to  which  it  refers.  But,  in  the  foregoing  sentence,  there  is 
no  such  adjective.  He  had  spoken 'o£ greatness  in  the  abstract  only ; 
and  therefore,  such  has  no  distinct  antecedent  to  which  we  can  refer 
it.  The  sentence  would  have  been  introduced  with  more  gramma- 
tical propriety,  by  saying,  to  this  class  belong,  or,  under  this  head  are 
ranged  the  prospects,  4*c.  The  of  which  is  prefixed  to  huge  heap, 
ofmottntains,  is  misplaced,  und  has,  perhaps,  Seen  an  error  in  the 


lect.  xxi.]    THE  STYLE  IN  SPECTATOR,  i\o.  4t2.  22& 

printing;  as  either  all  the  particulars  here  enumerated  should  have 
had  this  mark  of  the  genitive,' or  it  should  have  been  prefixed  to 
none  but  the  first.  When,  in  the  close  of  fhe  sentence,  the  author 
speaks  of  that  rude  magnificence,  which  appears  in  many  of  these 
stupendous  ivorks  of  nature,  he  had  better  have  omitted  the  word 
many,  which  seems  to  except  some  of  them.  Whereas,  in  his  gene  • 
ril  proposition,  he  undoubtedly  meant  to  include  all  the  stupendous 
works  he  had  enumerated;  and  there  is  no  question  that,  in  all  of 
them,  a  rude  magnificence  appears. 

'Our  imagination  loves  to  be  filled  with  an  object,  or  to  grasp  at 
any  thing  that  is  too  big  for  its  capacity.  We  are  flung  into  i  pleas- 
ing astonishment  at  such  unbounded  views;  and  feel  a  delightful  still- 
ness and  amazement  in  the  soul,  at  the  apprehension  of  them.' 

The  language  here  is  elegant,  and  several  of  the  expressions  re- 
markably happy.  There  is  nothing  which  requires  any  animadver- 
sion except  the  close,  at  thp  apprehension  of  them.  Not  only  is  this 
a  languid,  enfeebling  concision  of  a  sentence,  otherwise  beautiful, 
but  the  apprehension  of  views,  is  a  phrase  destitute  of  all  propriety, 
and,  indeed,  scarcely  intelligible.  Had  this  adjection  been  entirely 
omitted,  and  die  sentence  been  allowed  to  close  with  stillness  and 
amazement  in  the  soul,  it  would  have  been  a  great  improvement. 
Nothing  is  frequently  more  hurtful  to  the  grace  or  vivacity  of  a  pe- 
riod, than  superfluous  dragging  words  at  the  conclusion. 

'The  mind  of  man  naturally  hates  every  thing  that  looks  like  a 
restraint  upon  it,  and  is  apt  to  fancy  itself  under  a  sort  of  confine- 
ment, when  the  sight  is  pent  up  in  a  narrow  compass,  and  shortened 
on  every  side  by  the  neighbourhood  of  walls  or  mountains.  On  the 
contrary 3  a  spacious  horizon  is  an  image  of  liberty,  where  the  eye 
has  room  to  range  abroad,  to  expatiate  at  large  on  the  immensity  of 
its  views,  and  to  lose  its^f  amidst  the  variety  of  objects  that  oflei 
themselves  to  its  observation.  Such  wide  and  undetermined  pros- 
pects are  pleasing  to  the  fancy,  as  the  speculations  of  eternity,  or 
infinitude,  are  to  the  understanding.' 

Our  author's  style  appears  here  in  all  that  native  beauty  which 
cannot  be  too  much  praised.  The  numbers  flow  smoothly,  and 
.vith  a  graceful  harmony.  The  words  which  he  has  chosen,  carry 
a  certain  amplitude  and  fulness,  well  suited  to  the  nature  of  the 
subject ;  and  the  members  of  the  periods  rise  in  a  gradation  accom- 
modated to  the  rise  of  the  thought.  The  eye  first  ranges  abroad ; 
then  expatiates  at  large  on  the  immensity  of  its  views  ;  and,  at  last, 
loses  itself  amidst  the  variety  of  objects  that  offer  themselves  to  its 
cbservation.  The  fancy  is  elegantly  contrasted  with  the  understand- 
ing, prospects  with  specidations,  and  wide  and  undetermined  pros- 
pects, with  speculations  of  eternity  and  infinitude. 

*  But  if  there  be  a  beauty  or  uncommonness  joined  with  this 
grandeur,  as  in  troubled  ocean,  a  heaven  adorned  with  stars  and 
meteors,  or  the  spacious  landscape  cut  out  into  rivers,  woods,  rocks, 
and  meadows,  the  pleasure  still  grows  upon  us  as  it  arises  from  more 
than  a  single  principle.' 

The  article  prefixed  to  beauty,  in  the  beginning  of  this  sentence, 
2L 


230  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF        [lect.  xxi 

might  have  been  omitted,  and  the  style  have  run,  perhaps,  to  more 
advantage  thus :  but  if  beauty,  or  uncommonness,  be  joined  to  this 
grandeur — a  landscape  cut  out  into  rivers,  ivoods,  &c.  seems  un- 
seasonably to  imply  an  artificial  formation,  and  would  have  been 
better  expressed  by,  diversified  with  rivers,  woods,  &c. 

1  Every  thing  that  is  new  or  uncommon,  raises  a  pleasure-,  ia  the 
imagination,  because  it  fills  the  soul  with  an  agreeable  surprise, 
gratifies  its  curiosity,  and  gives  it  an  idea  of  which  it  was  not  before 
possessed.  We  are,  indeed,  so  often  conversant  with  one  set  of 
objects,  and  tired  out  with  so  many  repeated  shows  of  the  same 
things,  that  whatever  is  new  or  uncommon  contributes  a  little  to 
vary  human  life,  and  to  divert  our  minds,  for  a  while,  with  the 
strangeness  of  its  appearance.  It  serves  us  for  a  kind  of  refresh- 
ment, and  takes  off  from  that  satiety  we  are  apt  to  complain  of  in 
our  usual  and  ordinary  entertainments.' 

The  style  in  these  sentences  flows  in  an  easy  and  agreeable  man- 
ner. A  severe  critic  might  point  out  some  expressions  that  would 
bear  being  retrenched.  But  this  would  alter  the  genius  and  cha- 
racter of  Mr.  Addison's  style.  We  must  always  remember,  that 
good  composition  admits  of  being  carried  on  under  many  different 
forms.  Style  must  not  be  reduced  to  one  precise  standard.  One 
writer  may  be  as  agreeable,  by  a  pleasing  diffuseness,  when  the 
subject  bears,  and  his  genius  prompts  it,  as  another  by  a  concise 
and  forcible  manner.  It  is  fit,  however,  to  observe,  that  in  the 
beginning  of  those  sentences  which  we  have  at  present  before  us, 
the  phrase,  arises  a  pleasure  in  the  imagination,  is  unquestionably 
too  flat  and  feeble,  and  might  easily  be  amended,  by  saying,  affords 
pleasure  to  the  imagination  ;  and  towards  tbe  end,  there  are  two 
ofs,  which  grate  harshly  on  the  ear,  in  that  phrase,  takes  off  from 
that  satiety  we  are  apt  to  complain  of;  where  the  correction  is  as 
easily  made  as  in  the  other  case,  by  substituting,  diminishes  that 
satiety  ofivhich  ive  are  apt  to  complain.  Such  instances  show  the 
advantage  of  frequent  reviews  of  what  we  have  written,  in  order  to 
give  proper  correctness  and  polish  to  our  language. 

'  It  is  this  which  bestows  charms  on  a  monster,  and  makes  even  the 
imperfections  of  nature  please  us.  It  is  this  that  recommends  vari- 
ety, where  the  mind  is  every  instant  called  off  to  something  new,  and 
the  attention  not  suffered  to  dwell  too  long,  and  waste  itself  on  any 
particular  object.  It  is  this,  likewise,  that  improves  what  is  great  or 
beautiful,  and  makes  it  afford  the  mind  a  double  entertainment.' 

Still  the  style  proceeds  with  perspicuity,  grace,  and  harmony.  The 
full  and  ample  assertion,  with  which  each  of  these  sentences  is  intro- 
duced, frequent  on  many  occasions  with  our  author,  is  here  proper 
and  seasonable;  as  it  was  his  intention  to  magnify,  as  much  as  pos- 
sible, the  effects  of  novelty  and  variety,  and  to  draw  our  attention  to 
them.  His  frequent  use  oithat,  instead  of  ivhich,  is  another  pecu- 
liarity of  his  style;  but,  on  this  occasion  in  particular,  cannot  be 
much  commen;  ^ed;  as,  it  is  this  which,se,ems,  in  every  view,  to  be 
better  than,  •//  is  this  that,  three  times  repeated.  I  must,  likewise, 
ake  notice,  that  the  antecedent  to,  it  is  this,  when  critically  consi 


lect.xxi.]    THE  STYLE  IN  SPECTATOR,  No.  412.        231 

dered,  is  not  altogether  proper.  It  refers,  as  we  discover  by  the  sense, 
to  whatever  is  new  or  uncommon.  But  as  it  is  not  good  language  to 
say,  whatever  is  new  bestows  charms  on  a  monster,  one  cannot  avoid 
thinking  that  our  author  had  done  better  to  have  begun  the  first  of 
these  three  sentences,  with  saying,e7  is  novelty  which  bestows  charms 
on  a  monster,  &c. 

'  Groves,  fields,  and  meadows,  are  at  any  season  of  the  year  plea- 
sant to  look  upon;  but  never  so  much  as  in  the  opening  of  the  spring, 
when  they  are  all  new  and  fresh,  with  their  first  gloss  upon  them,  and 
not  yet  too  much  accustomed  and  familiar  to  the  eye.' 

In  this  expression,  never  so  much  as  in  the  opening  of  the  spring, 
there  appears  to  be  a  small  error  in  grammar ;  for  when  the  con 
struction  is  filled  up,  it  must  be  reani,never  so  much  pleasant.  Had 
he,  to  avoid  this,  said,  never  so  much  so,  the  grammatical  error  would 
have  been  prevented,  but  the  language  would  have  been  awkward. 
Better  to  have  said,  but  never  so  agreeable  as  in  the  opening  of  the 
spring.  We  readily  say,  the  eye  is  accustomed  to  objects,  but  to 
say,  as  our  author  has  done  at  the  close  of  the  sentence,  that  ob- 
jects are  accustomed  to  the  eye,  can  scarcely  be  allowed  in  a  prose 
composition. 

i  For  this  reason,  there  is  nothing  that  more  enlivens  a  prospect 
than  rivers,  jetteaus,  or  falls  of  water,  where  the  scene  is  perpetually 
shifting  and  entertaining  the  sight,  every  moment,  with  something 
that  is  new.  We  are  quickly  tired  with  looking  at  hills  and  vallies, 
where  every  thing  continues  fixed  and  settled,  in  the  same  place  and 
posture ;  but  find  our  thoughts  a  little  agitated  and  relieved  at  the  sight 
of  such  objects  as  are  ever  in  motion,  and  sliding  away  from  beneath 
t&e  eye  of  the  beholder.' 

The  first  of  these  sentences  is  connected  in  too  loose  a  manner  with 
that  which  immediately  preceded  it.  When  he  says,for  this  reason 
there  is  nothing  that  more  enlivens,  <§*c.  we  are  entitled  to  look  for 
the  reason  in  what  he  had  just  before  said.  But  there  we  find  no 
reason  for  what  he  is  now  going  to  assert,  except  that  groves  and 
meadows  are  most  pleasant  in  the  spring.  We  know  that  he  has  been 
speaking  of  the  pleasure  produced  by  novelty  and  variety,  and  our 
minds  naturally  recur  to  this,  as  the  reason  here  alluded  to :  but  his 
language  does  not  properly  express  it.  It  is,  indeed,  one  of  the  de- 
fects of  this  amiable  writer,  that  his  sentences  are  often  too  negli- 
gently connected  with  one  another.  His  meaning,  upon  the  whole, 
we  gather  with  ease  from  the  tenour  of  his  discourse.  Yet  his  negli- 
gence prevents  his  sense  from  strikingus  with  that  force  and  evidence, 
which  a  more  accurate  juncture  of  parts  would  have  produced.  Ba- 
ting  this  inaccuracy,  these  two  sentences,  especially  the  latter,  are 
remarkably  elegant  and  beautiful.  The  close,  in  particular,  is  un- 
commonly fine,  and  carries  as  much  expressive  harmony  as  the  lan- 
guage can  admit.  It  seems  to  paint  what  he  is  describing,  at  once 
to  the  eye  and  the  ear.  Such  objects  as  are  ever  in  motion  and  slid- 
ing away  from  beneath  the  eye  of  the  beholder.  Indeed,  notwith- 
standing those  small  errors,  which  the  strictness  of  critical  examina 
tion  obliges  me  to  point  out,  it  may  be  safely  pronounced,  that  the 


232  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF      [lect.  xxi. 

two  paragraphs  which  we  have  now  considered  in  this  paper,  the  one 
concerninggreatness,  and  the  other  concerning  novelty,  are  extreme- 
ly worthy  of  Mr.  Addison,  and  exhibit  a  style,  which  they  who  can 
successfully  imitate,  may  esteem  themselves  happy. 

'But  there  is  nothing  that  makes  its  way  more  directly  to  the  soul 
than  beauty,  which  immediately  diffuses  a  secret  satisfaction  and  com- 
placency through  the  imagination,  and  gives  a  finishing  to  any  thing 
that  is  great  or  uncommon.  The  very  first  discovery  of  it  strikes  the 
mind  with  an  inward  joy,  and  spreads  a  cheerfulness  and  delight 
.hrough  all  its  faculties.'  * 

Some  degree  of  verbosity  may  be  here  d  isco  vered,  as  phrases  are  re- 
peated, which  are  little  more  than  the  echo  of  one  another;  such  as, 
diffusing  satisfaction  and  complacency  through  the  imagination — 
striking  the  mind  ivith  inward  joy — spreading  cheerfulness  and 
delight  through  all  its  faculties.  At  the  same  time,  I  readily  admit 
that  this  full  and  flowing  style,  even  though  it  carry  some  redundan- 
cy, is  not  unsuitable  to  the  gayety  of  the  subject  on  which  the  author 
is  entering,  and  is  more  allowable  here  than  it  would  have  been  on 
some  other  occasions. 

'There  is  not,perhaps,  any  real  beauty  or  deformity  more  in  one 
piece  of  matter  than  another;  because  we  might  have  been  so  made, 
that  whatever  now  appears  loathsome  to  us,  might  have  shown  itself 
agreeable;  but  we  find,  by  experience,  that  there  are  several  modi- 
fications of  matter,  which  the  mind,  without  any  previous  consider- 
ation, pronounces  at  first  sight  beautiful  or  deformed. ' 

In  this  sentence  there  is  nothing  remarkable,  in  any  view,  to  draw 
our  attention.  We  may  observe  only,  that  the  word  more,  towards 
the  beginning,  is  not  in  its  proper  place,  and  that  the  preposition  in, 
is  wanting  before  another.  The  phrase  ought  to  have  stood  thus : 
Beauty  or  deformity  inonepiece  of  matter,  more  than  in  another. 

'Thus  we  see,  that  every  different  species  of  sensible  creatures, 
has  its  different  notions  of  beauty,  and  that  each  of  them  is  most  af- 
fected with  the  beauties  of  its  own  kind.  This  is  no  where  more  re- 
markable, than  in  birds  of  the  same  shape  and  proportion,  when  we 
often  see  the  male  determined  in  his  courtship  by  the  single  grain  or 
tincture  of  a  feather,  and  never  discovering  any  charms  but  in  the 
colour  of  its  species.' 

Neither  is  there  here  any  particular  elegance  or  felicity  of  language. 
Different  sense  of  beauty  would  have  been  a  more  proper  expression 
to  have  been  applied  to  irrational  creatures,  than  as  it  stands,  different 
notions  of  beauty.  In  the  close  of  the  second  sentence,  when  the 
author  says,  colour  of  its  species,  he  is  guilty  of  considerable  inaccu- 
racy in  changing  the  gender,  as  he  had  said  in  the  same  sentence, 
that  the  male  ivas  determined  in  his  courtship. 

'There  is  a  second  kind  of  beauty,  that  we  find  in  the  several  pro- 
ducts of  art  and  nature,  which  does  not  work  in  the  imagination  with 
that  warmth  and  violence,  as  the  beauty  that  appears  in  our  proper 
species,  but  is  apt,  however,  to  raise  in  us  a  secret  delight,  and 
kind  of  fondness  for  the  places  or  objects  in  which  we  discover  U.' 


lect.  xxi.]    THE  STYLE  IN  SPECTATOR,  No.  412.       233 

Still,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  we  find  little  to  praise.  As  in  his  enuncia 
don  of  the  subject,  when  beginning  the  former  paragraph,  he  appeared 
to  have  been  treatingof  beautyin  general,  in  distinction  from  greatness 
or  novelty ;  this  second  kind  of  beauty  of  which  he  here  speaks,  comes 
upon  us  in  a  sort  of  surprise,  and  it  is  only  by  degrees  we  learn,  that 
formerly  he  had  no  more  in  view  than  the  beauty  which  the  different 
species  of  sensible  creatures  find  in  one  another.  This  second  Jeina 
of  beauty,  he  says,  we  find  in  the  several  products  of  art  and  nature. 
He  undoubtedly  means,  not  in  all,  but  in  several  of  the  products  Oj 
art  and  nature,  and  ought  so  to  have  expressed  himself;  and  in  the 
place  oiproducts,  to  have  used  also  the  more  proper  wov&productions. 
When  he  adds,  that  this  kind  of  beauty  does  not  work  in  the  imagina- 
tion with  that  warmth  and  violence  as  the  beauty  that  appears  in  our 
■proper  species ;  the  language  would  certainly  have  been  more  pure 
and  elegant,  if  he  had  said,  that  it  does  not  work  upon  the  imagina- 
tion with  such  warmth  and  violence,  as  the  beauty  that  appears  in 
our  own  species. 

'This  consists  either  in  the  gayety  or  variety  of  colours,  in  the 
symmetry  and  proportion  of  parts,  in  the  arrangement  and  disposi- 
tion of  bodies,  or  in  a  just  mixture  and  concurrence  of  all  together. 
Among  these  several  kinds  of  beauty,  the  eye  takes  most  delight  in 
colours.'  • 

To  the  language,  here,  I  see  no  objection  that  can  be  made. 

'  We  no  where  meet  with  a  more  glorious  or  pleasing  show  in  na- 
ture, than  what  appears  in  the  heavens  at  the  rising  and  setting  of  the 
sun,  which  is  wholly  made  up  of  those  different  stains  of  light,  that 
show  themselves  in  clouds  of  a  different  situation.' 

The  chief  ground  of  criticism,  on  this  sentence,  is  the  disjointed 
situation  of  the  relative  luhich ;  grammatically,  it  refers  to  the  rising 
and  setting  of  the  sun.  But  the  author  meant,  that  it  should  refer 
to  the  show  which  appears  in  the  heavens  at  that  time.  It  is  too  com- 
mon among  authors,  when  they  are  writing  without  much  care,  to 
make  such  particles  as  this,  and  which,  refer  not  to  any  particular 
antecedent  word,  but  to  the  tenour  of  some  phrase,  or  perhaps  the 
scope  of  some  whole  sentence,  which  has  gone  before.  This  prac- 
tice saves  them  trouble  in  marshalling  their  words,  and  arranging  a 
period;  but,  though  it  may  leave  their  meaning  intelligible,  yet  it 
renders  that  meaning  much,  less  perspicuous,  determined,  and  pre- 
cise, than  it  might  otherwise  have  been.  The  error  I  have  pointed 
out,  might  have  been  avoided  by  a  small  alteration  in  the  construc- 
tion of  the  sentence,  after  some  such  manner  as  this:  We  no  lohere 
meet  ivit  ha  more  glorious  and  pleasing  show  in  nut  are,  than  what  is 
formed  in  the  heavens  at  the  rising  and  setting  of  the  sun,  by  the  dif- 
ferent $  fains  of  light  which  show  themselves  in  clouds  of  different 
situations.  Our  author  writes,  in  clouds  of  a  different  situation,  by 
which  he  means,  clouds  that  differ  in  situation  from  each  other.  But,  a:* 
this  is  neither  the  obvious  nor  grammatical  meaning  of  his  words,  it 
was  necessary  to  change  the  expression,  as  I  have  done,  into  the  plu- 
ral number. 

30 


234  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION.        [lect.  xh 

1  For  this  reason,  we  find  the  poets,  who  are  always  addressing 
themselves  to  the  imagination,  borrowing  more  of  their  epithets 
from  colours  than  from  any  other  topic.' 

On  this  sentence  nothing  occurs,  except  a  remark  similar  to  what 
was  made  before,  of  loose  connexion  with  the  sentence  which  pre- 
cedes. For  though  he  begins  with  saying,ybr  this  reason,  the  fore- 
going sentence,  which  was  employed  about  the  clouds  and  the  sun, 
gives  no  reason  for  the  general  proposition  he  now  lays  down.  The 
reason  to  which  he  refers,  was  given  two  sentences  before,  when  he 
observed,  that  the  eye  takes  more  delight  in  colours  than  in  any 
other  beauty;  and  it  was  with  that  sentence  that  the  present  one 
should  have  stood  immediately  connected. 

'  As  the  fancy  delights  in  every  thing  that  is  great,  strange,  or 
beautiful,  and  is  still  more  pleased,  the  more  it  finds  of  these  per- 
fections in  the  same  object,  so  it  is  capable  of  receiving  a  new  sa- 
tisfaction by  the  assistance  of  another  sense.' 

Another  sense,  here  means,  grammatically,  another  sense  than  fan- 
cy. For  there  is  no  other  thing  in  the  period  to  which  this  expres- 
sion, another  sense,  can  at  all  be  opposed.  He  had  not,  for  some 
time,  made  mention  of  any  sense  whatever.  He  forgot  to  add,  what 
was  undoubtedly  in  his  thoughts,  another  sense  than  that  of  sight. 

'Thus  any  continued  sound,  as  the  music  of  birds,  or  a  fall  of 
water,  awakens  every  moment  the  mind  of  the  beholder,  and  makes 
nim  more  attentive  to  the  several  beauties  of  the  place  which  lie 
Defore  him.  Thus,  if  there  arises  a  fragrancy  of  smells  or  perfumes, 
they  heighten  the  pleasures  of  the  imagination,  and  make  even  the 
colours  and  verdure  of  the  landscape  appear  more  agreeable;  for 
the  ideas  of  both  senses  recommend  each  other,  and  are  pleasanter 
together  than  when  they  enter  the  mind  separately;  as  the  different 
colours  of  a  picture,  when  they  are  well  disposed,  set  off  one  another, 
and  receive  an  additional  beauty  from  the  advantage  of  their  situa- 
tion.' 

Whether  Mr.  Addison's  theory  here  be  just:or  not,  may  be  ques- 
tioned. A  continued  sound,  such  as  that  of  a  fall  of  water,  is  so  far 
from  awakening  every  moment  the  mind  of  the  beholder,  that  no- 
thing is  more  likely  to  lull  him  asleep.  It  may,  indeed,  please  the 
imagination,  and  heighten  the  beauties  of  the  scene;  but  it  produces 
this  effect,  by  a  soothing,  not  by  an  awakening  influence.  With  re- 
gard to  the  style,  nothing  appears  exceptionable.  The.  flow,  both 
of  language  and  of  ideas,  is  very  agreeable.  The  author  continues, 
to  the  end,  the  same  pleasing  train  of  thought,  which  had  run  through 
the  rest  of  the  paper;  and  leaves  us  agreeably  employed  in  compar- 
"ng  together  different  degrees  of  beauty. 


(  235  ) 

LECTURE  XXII. 


CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF  THE  STYLE  IN  No  413 
OF  THE  SPECTATOR. 

\  Though  in  yesterday's  paper  we  considered  how  every  thing 
that  is  great,  new,  or  beautiful,  is  apt  to  affect  the  imagination  with 
pleasure,  we  must  own,  that  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  assign  the  ne- 
cessary cause  of  this  pleasure,  because  we  know  neith' ff  the  nature 
of  an  idea,  nor  the  substance  of  a  human  soul,  which  might  help  us 
to  discover  the  conformity  or  disagreeableness  of  the  one  to  the 
other ;  and  therefore,  for  want  of  such  a  light,  all  that  we  can  do  in 
speculations  of  this  kind,  is,  to  reflect  on  those  operations  of  the  soul 
that  are  most  agreeable,  and  to  range,  under  their  proper  heads, 
what  is  pleasing  or  displeasing  to  the  mind,  without  being  able  to 
trace  out  the  several  necessary  and  efficient  causes  from  whence  the 
pleasure  or  displeasure  arises.' 

This  sentence,  considered  as  an  introductory  one,  must  be  ac- 
knowledged to  be  very  faulty.  An  introductory  sentence  should 
never  contain  any  thing  that  can  in  any  degree  fatigue  or  puzzle  the 
reader.  When  an  author  is  entering  on  a  new  branch  of  his  subject, 
informing  us  of  what  he  has  done,  and  what  he  proposes  further 
to  do,  we  naturally  expect,  that  he  should  express  himself  in  the 
simplest  and  most  perspicuous  manner  possible.  But  the  sentence 
now  before  us  is  crowded  and  indistinct:  containing  three  separate 
propositions,  which,  as  I  shall  afterwards  show,  required  separate 
sentences  to  have  unfolded  them.  Mr.  Addison's  chief  excellence 
as  a  writer,  lay  in  describing  and  painting.  There  he  is  great;  but 
in  methodising  and  reasoning,  he  is  not  so  eminent.  As,  besides 
the  general  fault  of  prolixity  and  indistinctness,  this  sentence  con- 
tains several  inaccuracies,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  enter  into  a  minute 
discussion  of  its  structure  and  parts;  a  discussion  which  to  many 
readers  will  appear  tedious,  and  which  therefore  they  will  naturally 
pass  over;  but  which,  to  those  who  are  studying  composition,  I 
hope  may  prove  of  some  benefit. 

Though  in  yesterday's  paper  we  considered.  The  import  of though 
is,  notwithstanding  that.  When  it  appears  in  the  beginning  of  a 
sentence,  its  relative, generally, is  yet;  and  it  is  employed  to  warn 
us,  after  we  have  been  informed  of  some  truth,  that  we  are  not  to 
infer  from  it  some  other  thing  which  we  might  perhaps  have  ex- 
pected to  follow :  as, '  Though  virtue  be  the  only  road  to  happiness, 
yet  it  does  not  permit  the  unlimited  gratification  of  our  desires.' 
Now  it  is  plain,  that  there  was  no  such  opposition  between  the  sub- 
ject of  yesterday's  paper,  and  what  the  author  is  now  going  to  say, 
between  his  asserting  a  fact,  and  his  not  being  able  to  assign  the 
cause  of  that  fact,  as  rendered  the  use  of  this  adversative  particle, 
though,  either  necessary  or  proper  in  the  introduction.     We  const- 


236  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF     ^ect.  xxii 

dered  how  every  thing  that  is  great,  new  or  beautiful,  is  apt  to  affect 
the  imagination  with  pleasure.  The  adverb  how  signifies,  either  the 
means  by  which,  or  the  manner  in  which,  something  is  done.  But 
in  truth,  neither  one  nor  the  other  of  these  had  been  considered  by  our 
author.  He  had  illustrated  the  fact  alone,  that  they  do  affect  the 
imagination  with  pleasure;  and,  with  respect  to  the  quomodo  or  the 
how,  he  is  so  far  from  having  considered  it,  that  he  is  just  now 
going  to  show  that  it  cannot  be  explained,  and  that  we  must  res*, 
contented  with  the  knowledge  of  the  fact  alone,  and  of  its  purpose 
or  final  cause.  We  must  own,  that  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  assign  the 
necessary  cause  (he  means,  what  is  more  commonly  called  the  ef- 
ficient cause)  of  this  pleasure,  because  we  know  neither  the  nature 
of  an  idea,  nor  the  substance  of  a  human  soul.  The  substance  of  a 
human  soul  is  certainly  a  very  uncouth  expression,  and  there  ap- 
pears no  reason  why  he  should  have  varied  from  the  word  nature, 
which  would  have  been  applicable  equally  to  idea  and  to  soul. 

Which  might  help  us,  our  author  proceeds,  to  discover  the  confor- 
mity or  disagreeableness  of  the  one  to  the  other.  The  which,  at  the 
beginning  of  this  member  of  the  period,  is  surely  ungrammatical, 
as  it  is  a  relative,  without  any  antecedent  in  all  the  sentence.  It 
refers,  by  the  construction,  to  the  nature  of  an  idea,or  thesubstance 
of  a  human  soul;  but  this  is  by  no  means  the  reference  wnich  the 
author  intended.  His  meaning  is,  that  our  knowing  the  nature  of 
an  idea,  and  the  substance  of  a  human  soul,  might  help  us  to  dis- 
cover the  conformity  or  disagreeableness  of  the  one  to  the  other; 
and  therefore  the  syntax  absolutely  required  the  word  knowledge 
to  have  been  inserted  as  the  antecedent  to  loJiich.  I  have  before 
remarked,  and  the  remark  deserves  to  be  repeated,  that  nothing  is 
a  more  certain  sign  of  careless  composition,  than  to  make  such  rela- 
tives asfohich,  not  refer  to  any  precise  expression,  but  carry  a  loose 
and  vague  relation  to  the  general  strain  of  what  had  gone  before. 
When  our  sentences  run  into  this  form,  we  may  be  assured  thcie  is 
something  in  the  construction  of  them  that  requires  alteration. 
The  phrase  of  discovering  the  conformity  or  disagreeableness  of  the 
one  to  the  other  is  likewise  exceptionable ;  for  disagreeableness  nei- 
ther forms  a  proper  contrast  to  the  other  word,  conformity,  nor  ex 
presses  what  the  author  meant  here,(as  far  as  any  meaning  can  be  gath- 
ered from  his  words)  that  is,  a  certain  unsuitableness  or  want  of  con- 
formity to  the  nature  of  the  soul.  To  say  the  truth,  this  member  of 
the  sentence  had  much  better  have  been  omitted  altogether.  The 
conformity  or  disagreeableness  of  an  idea  to  the  substance  of  a  hu- 
mansoul,  is  a  phrase  which  conveys  to  the  mind  no  distinct  nor  intel- 
ligible conception  whatever.  The  author  had  before  given  a  suffi- 
cient reason  for  his  not  assigning  the  efficient  cause  of  those  pleasures 
of  the  imagination,  because  we  neither  know  the  nature  of  our  own 
ideas  nor  of  the  soul;  and  this  farther  discussion  about  the  confor- 
mity or  disagreeableness  of  the  nature  of  the  one,  to  the  substance 
of  the  other,  affords  no  clear  nor  useful  illustration. 

^Snd  therefore,  the  sentence  goes  on,  for  want  of  such  a  light,  all 
*hat  we  can  do  in  speculations  of  this  kind,  is,  to  reflect  on  those  opera- 


lect.  xxii.]    THE  ST\LE  IN  SPECTATOR,  No.  413.  237 

tions  of  the  soul  that  are  most  agreeable  and  to  range  u  nder  their  pro 
per  heads  what  is  pleasing  or  displeasing  to  the  mind.  The  two  ex- 
pressions in  the  beginning  of  this  member,therefore,  and  for  want  of 
such  a  light,  evidently  refer  to  the  same  thing,  and  are  quite  synony- 
mous. One  or  other  of  them,  therefore,  had  better  have  been  omit- 
ted. Instead  of to  range.under  their proper  heads,  thelanguage  would 
have  been  smoother,  xitheir  had  been  left  out.  Without  being  able  to 
trace  out  the  several  necessary  and  efficient  causes  from  whence  the 
pleasure  or  displeasure  arises.  The  expression,/rom  whence,  though 
seemingly  justified  by  very  frequent  usage,  is  taxed  by  Dr.  Johnson 
as  a  vicious  mode  of  speech  ;  seeing  whence  jAoxve,  has  all  the  power  of 
from  whence,  which  therefore  appears  an  unnecessary  reduplication. 
I  am  inclined  to  think,  that  the  whole  of  this  last  member  of  the 
sentence  had  better  have  been  dropped.  The  period  might  have 
closed  with  full  propriety,  at  the  words,  pleasing  or  displeasing  to  the 
mind.  All  that  follows,  suggests  no  idea  that  had  not  been  fully  con- 
veyed in  the  preceding  part  of  the  sentence.  It  is  a  mere  expletive 
adjection,which  might  be  omitted  not  only  without  injury  to  the  mean- 
ing, but  to  the  great  relief  of  a  sentence  already  labouring  under  the 
multitude  of  words. 

Having  now  finished  the  analysis  of  this  long  sentence,  I  am  inclin- 
ed to  be  of  opinion,  that  if,  on  any  occasion,  we  can  adventure  to  al- 
ter Mr.  Addison's  style,  it  may  be  done  to  advantage  here, by  break- 
ing down  this  period  in  the  following  manner :  '  In  yesterday's  paper 
we  have  shown  that  every  thing  whi  ch  is  great,  new,  or  beautiful,  is  apt 
to  affect  the  imagination  with  pleasure.  We  must  own,  that  it  is  im 
possible  for  us  to  assign  the  efficient  cause  of  this  pleasure,  because 
we  know  not  the  nature  either  of  an  idea,  or  of  the  human  soul.  All 
that  we  can  do,  therefore,  in  speculations  of  this  kind,  is  to  reflect  on 
the  operations  of  the  soul  which  are  most  agreeable,  and  to  range 
under  proper  heads,  what  is  pleasing  or  displeasing  to  the  mind.' 
We  proceed  now  to  the  examination  of  the  following  sentences. 

'  Final  causes  lie  more  bare  and  open  to  our  observation,  as  there 
are  often  a  great  variety  that  belong  to  the  same  effect;  and  these, 
though  they  are  not  altogether  so  satisfactory,  are  generally  more  use- 
ful than  the  other,  as  they  give  us  greater  occasion  of  admiring  the 
goodness  and  wisdom  of  the  first  contriver.' 

Though  some  difference  might  be  traced  between  the  sense 
of  bare  and  open,  yet,  as  they  are  here  employed,  they  are  so 
nearly  synonymous,  that  one  of  them  was  sufficient.  It  would 
have  been  enough  to  have  said,  Final  causes  lie  more  open  to  ob- 
servation. One  can  scarcely  help  observing  here,  that  the  obviors- 
ness  of  final  causes  does  not  proceed,  as  Mr.  Addison  supposes,  frcm 
a  variety  of  them  concurring  in  the  same  effect,  which  is  often  not  the 
cas£ ;  but  from  our  being  able  to  ascertain  more  clearly,  from  our 
own  experience,  the  congruity  of  a  final  cause  with  the  circumstances 
of  our  condition ;  whereas  the  constituent  parts  of  subjects,  whence 
efficient  causes  proceed,  lie  for  the  most  part  beyond  the  reach  of  our 
faculties.  But  as  this  remark  respects  the  thought  more  than  the  style, 
it  is  sufficient  for  ustoobserve,that  when  he  sa-*rs,  a  great  variety  that 
2M 


238  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF        [lect.  xxii 

btlong  to  the  same  effect,  the  expression,  strictly  considered,  is  no( 
altogether  proper.  The  accessory  is  properly  said  to  belong  to  the 
principal ;  not  the  principal  to  the  accessory.  Now,  an  effe/jt  is  con- 
sidered as  the  accessory  or  consequence  of  its  cause;  and  therefore, 
though  we  might  well  say  a  variety  of  effects  belong  to  the  same 
cause,  it  seems  not  so  proper  to  say,  that  a  variety  of  causes  belong 
to  the  same  effect. 

'One  of  the  final  causes  of  our  delight  in  any  thing  that  is  great, 
may  be  this:  The  Supreme  Author  of  our  being  has  so  formed  the 
soul  of  man,  that  nothing  but  himself  can  be  its  last,  adequate,  and 
proper  happiness.  Because,  therefore,  a  great  part  of  our  happiness 
must  arise  from  the  contemplation  of  his  being,  that  he  might  give 
our  souls  a  just  relish  of  such  contemplation,  he  has  made  them  na- 
turally delight  in  the  apprehension  of"  what  is  great  or  unlimited.' 

The  concurrence  of  two  conjunctions,  because  therefore,  forms 
rather  a  harsh  and  unpleasing  beginning  of  the  last  of  these  senten- 
ces ;  and,  in  tho  close,  one  would  think,  that  the  author  might  have 
devised  a  happier  word  than  apprehension,  to  be  applied  to  what  is 
unlimited.  But  that  I  may  not  be  thought  hypercritical,  I  shall 
make  no  farther  observation  on  these  sentences. 

'  Our  admiration,  which  is  a  very  pleasing  motion  of  the  mind, 
immediately  rises  at  the  consideration  of  any  object  that  takes  up  a 
good  deal  of  room  in  the  fancy,  and,  by  consequence,  will  improve 
into  the  highest  pitch  of  astonishment  and  devotion,  when  we  con- 
template his  nature,  that  is  neither  circumscribed  by  time  nor  place, 
nor  to  be  comprehended  by  the  largest  capacity  of  a  created  being.' 

Here  our  author's  style  rises  beautifully  along  with  the  thought. 
However  inaccurate  he  may  sometimes  be,  when  coolly  philosophi- 
sing, yet,  whenever  his  fancy  is  awakened  by  description,  or  his 
mind,  as  here,  warmed  with  some  glowing  sentiment,  he  presently 
becomes  great,  and  discovers,  in  his  language,  the  hand  of  a  master. 
Every  one  must  observe,  with  what  felicity  this  period  is  constructed 
The  words  are  long  and  majestic.  The  members  rise  one  above  an- 
other, and  conduct  the  sentence,  at  last,  to  that  full  and  harmonious 
close,  which  leaves  upon  the  mind  such  an  impression,  as  the  author 
intended  to  leave,  of  something  uncommonly  great,  awful,  and  mag- 
nificent 

'  He  has  annexed  a  secret  pleasure  to  the  idea  of  any  thing  that  is 
new  or  uncommon,  that  he  might  encourage  us  in  the  pursuit  of 
knowledge,  and  engage  us  to  search  into  the  wonders  of  creation  ; 
for  every  new  idea  brings  such  a  pleasure  along  with  it,  as  rewards 
the  pains  we  have  taken  in  its  acquisition,  and  consequently,  serves 
as  a  motive  to  put  us  upon  fresh  discoveries.' 

The  language,  in  this  sentence,  is  clear  and  precise :  only,  we 
cannot  but  observe,  in  this,  and  the  two  following  sentences,  which 
are  constructed  in  the  same  manner,  a  strong  proof  of  Mr.  Addison's 
unreasonable  partiality  to  the  particle  that,  in  preference  to  ivhich 
Annexed  a  secret  pleasure  to  the  idea  of  any  thing  that  is  new  or  un- 
common, that  he  might  encourage  its.  Here,  the  first  that  stands  for 
a  relative  pronoun,  and  the  next  that,  at  the  distance  only  of  four 


lect.  xxii.]  THE  STYLE  IN  SPECTATOR,  No.  413.         239 

words,  is  a  conjunction.  This  confusion  of  sounds  serves  to  embar- 
lass  style.  Much  better,  sure,  to  have  said,  the  idea  of  any  thing 
which  is  new  or  uncommon  that  he  might  encourage.  The  expression 
with  which  the  sentence  concludes,  a  motive  to  put  us  upon  fresh 
discoveries,  is  flat,  and,  in  some  degree,  improper.  He  should  have 
said,/w/  us  upon  making  fresh  discoveries;  or  rather,  serves  as  a 
motive  inciting  us  to  make  fresh  discoveries. 

1  He  has  made  every  thing  that  is  beautiful  in  our  own  species, 
pleasant,  that  all  creatures  might  be  tempted  to  multiply  their  kind, 
and  fill  the  world  with  inhabitants;  for, 'tis  very  remarkable,  that, 
wherever  nature  is  crost  in  the  production  of  a  monster,  (the  result 
of  any  unnatural  mixture)  the  breed  is  incapable  of  propagating  its 
likeness,  and  of  founding  a  new  order  of  creatures;  so  that,  unless 
all  animals  were  allured  by  the  beauty  of  their  own  species,  genera- 
tion would  be  at  an  end,  and  the  earth  unpeopled.' 

Here  we  must,  however  reluctantly,  return  to  the  employment  of 
censure:  for  this  is  among  the  worst  sentences  our  author  ever 
wrote;  and  contains  a  variety  of  blemishes.  Taken  as  a  whole,  it 
is  extremely  deficient  in  unity.  Instead  of  a  complete  proposition, 
it  contains  a  sort  of  chain  of  reasoning,  the  links  of  which  are  so  ill 
put  together,  that  it  is  with  difficulty  we  can  trace  the  connexion ; 
and,  unless  we  take  the  trouble  of  perusing  it  several  times,  it  will 
leave  nothing  on  the  mind  but  an  indistinct  and  obscure  impression. 

Besides  this  general  fault,  respecting  the  meaning,  it  contains 
some  great  inaccuracies  in  language.  First,  God's  having  made 
every  thing  which  is  beautiful  in  our  species,  (that  is,  in  the  hu- 
man species) pleasant,  is  certainly  no  motive  for  all  creatures,  for 
beasts,and  birds,  and  fishes,  to  multiply  their  kind.  What  the  author 
meant  to  say,  though  he  has  expressed  himself  in  so  erroneous  a 
manner,  undoubtedly  was,  '  In  all  the  different  orders  of  creatures, 
he  has  made  every  thing,  which  is  beautiful  in  their  own  species, 
pleasant,  that  all  creatures  might  be  tempted  to  multiply  their  kind.' 
The  second  member  of  the  sentence  is  still  worse.  Ft  r  it  is  very 
remarkable,  that  wherever  nature  is  crost  in  theprodh  "Hon  of  a 
monster,  fyc.  The  reason  which  he  here  gives,  for  the  prece  lingasser- 
tion,  intimated  by  the  casual  particle/or,  is  far  from  being  obvious. 
The  connexion  of  thought  is  not  readily  apparent,  and  would  have  re 
quired  an  intermediate  step,  to  render  it  distinct.  But  what  does 
he  mean,  by  nature  being  crost  in  theproduction  of  a  monster?  One 
might  understand  him  to  mean,  'disappointed  in  its  intention  of 
producing  a  monster,'  as  when  we  say,  one  is  crost  in  his  pursuits, 
we  mean,  that  he  is  disappointed  in  accomplishing  the  end  whim  he 
intended.  Had  he  said,  crost  by  theproduction  of  'a  monster,  the  sense 
would  have  been  more  intelligible.  But  the  proper  rectification  oi 
the  expression  would  be  to  insert  the  adverb  as,  before  the  preposi- 
tion in,  after  this  manner ;  wherever  nature  is  crost,  as  in  theproduc- 
tion of  a  monster.  The  insertion  of  this  particle  as,  throws  so  much 
light  on  the  construction  of  this  member  of  the  sentence,  that  I  am 
very  much  inclined  to  believe,  it  had  stood  thus  originally,  in  our 
author's  manuscript;  and  that  the  present  reading  is  a  typographi 


240  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF       [lect.  xxii 

cal  error,  which,  having  crept  into  the  first  edition  of  the  Spectator, 
ran  through  all  the  subsequent  ones. 

'In  the  last  place,  he  has  made  every  thing  that  is  beautiful,  in 
all  other  objects,  pleasant,  or  rather  has  made  so  many  objects 
appear  beautiful,  that  he  might  render  the  whole  creation  more  gay 
and  delightful.  He  has  given  almost  every  thing  about  us  the  power 
of  raising  an  agreeable  idea  in  the  imagination  ;  so  that  it  is  impossi- 
ble for  us  to  behold  his  works  with  coldness  or  indifference,  and  to 
survey  so  many  beauties  without  a  secret  satisfaction  and  compla- 
cency. ' 

The  idea,  here,  is  so  just,  and  the  language  so  clear,  flowing,  and 
agreeable,  that,  to  remark  any  diffuseness  which  may  be  attributed 
to  these  sentences,  would  be  justly  esteemed  hypercritical. 

'  Things  would  make  but  a  poor  appearance  to  the  eye,  if  we  saw 
them  only  in  their  proper  figures  and  motions :  and  what  reason  can 
we  assign  for  their  exciting  in  us,  many  of  those  ideas  which  are 
different  from  any  thing  that  exists  in  the  objects  themselves,  (for 
such  are  light  and  colours,)  were  it  not  to  add  supernumerary  orna 
ments  to  the  universe,  and  make  it  more  agreeable  to  the  imagina- 
tion?' 

Our  author  is  now  entering  on  a  theory,  which  he  is  about  to  illus- 
trate, if  not  with  much  philosophical  accuracy,  yet,  with  great  beauty 
of  fancy,  and  glow  of  expression  A  strong  instance  of  his  want  of 
accuracy,  appears  in  the  manner  in  vvluci.  lie  opens  the  subject.  For 
what  meaning  is  there  in  things  exciting  •*•  us  many  of  those  ideas 
which  are  different  from  any  t  lini*  that  exists  in  the  objects  ?  No 
one,  sure,  ever  imagined  that  our  ideas  exist  in  the  objects.  Ideas, 
it  is  agreed  on  all  hands,  can  exist  no  where  but  in  the  mind.  What 
Mr.  Locke's  philosophy  teaches,and  what  our  author  should  have  said, 
is,exciting  i?ius  many  ideas  of  qualities  which  are  different  from  any 
thin  g-  that  exists  in  the  objects.  The  ungraceful  parenthesis  which 
f<  A\  jws,  for  siich  are  light  and  colors,  had  far  better  have  been 
avoid  f1,  and  incorporated  with  the  rest  of  the  sentence,  in  this 
rr.anv.'r  'exciting  in  us  many  ideas  of  qualities,  such  as  light  and 
f.olorv  s,  which  are  different  from  anything  that  exists  in  the  objects.' 

'  Wo  are  every  where  entertained  with  pleasing  shows  and  ap- 
pari'i/ns.  We  discover  imaginary  glories  in  the  heavens  and  in 
thj  e,  rth,  and  see  some  of  this  visionary  beauty  poured  out  upon 
thfj  whole  creation;  but  what  a  rough  unsightly  sketch  of  nature 
should  we  be  entertained  with,  did  all  her  colouring  disappear,  and 
the  several  distinctions  of  light  and  shade  vanish  ?  In  short,  our 
souls  are  delightfully  lost  and  bewildered  in  a  pleasing  delusion ; 
and  we  walk  about  like  the  enchanted  hero  of  a  romance,  who  sees 
Deautiful  castles,  woods,  and  meadows;  and,  at  the  same  time, 
hears  the  warbling  of  birds,  and  the  purling  of  streams  ;  but,  upon 
the  finishing  of  some  secret  spell,  the  fantastic  scene  breaks  up,  and 
the  disconsolate  knight  finds  himself  on  a  barren  heath,  or  in  a  soli- 
tary desert.'  * 

After  having  been  obliged  to  point  out  several  inaccuracies,  1 
return  with  much  more  pleasure  to  the  aisplay  of  beauties,  fo. 


lect.  xxn. J  THE  STYLE  IN  SPECTATOR,  No.  413.       241 

which  we  have  now  full  scope;  for  these  two  sentences  are  such  as 
do  the  highest  honour  to  Mr.  Addison's  talents  as  a  writer.  Warm- 
ed with  the  idea  he  had  laid  hold  of,  his  delicate  sensibility  to  the 
beauty  of  nature,  is  finely  displayed  in  the  illustration  of  it.  The 
style  is  flowing  and  full,  without  being  too  diffuse.  It  is  flowery? 
but  not  gaudy;  elevated,  but  not  ostentatious. 

Amidst  this  blazQ  of  beauties,  it  is  necessary  for  us  to  remark  one 
or  two  inaccuracies.  When  it  is  said, towards  the  close  of  the  first  of 
those  sentences,  what  a  rough  unsightly  sketch  of  nature  should  we 
be  entertainedwith,  the  preposition  with  should  have  been  placed  at 
the  beginning,  rather  than  at  the  end  of  this  member;  and  the 
word  entertained,  is  both  improperly  applied  here,  and  carelessly 
repeated  from  the  former  part  of  the  sentence.  It  was  there  em- 
ployed according  to  its  more  common  use,  as  relating  to  agreeable 
objects.  We  are  every  where  entertained  withpleasing  shows.  Here 
it  would  have  been  more  proper  to  have  changed  the  phrase,  and 
said,  with  what  a  rough  unsightly  sketch  of  nature  should  we  be  pre- 
sented. At  the  close  of  the  second  sentence,  where  it  is  said,  the 
fantastic  scene  breaks  up,  the  expression  is  lively,  but  not  altogether 
justifiable.     An  assembly  breaks  up  ;  a  scene  closes  or  disappears. 

Excepting  these  two  slight  inaccuracies,  the  style,  here,  is  not  only 
correct,  but  perfectly  elegant.  The  most  striking  beauty  of  the 
passage  arises  from  the  happy  simile  which  the  author  employs, 
and  the  fine  illustration  which  it  gives  to  the  thought.  The  enchant- 
ed hero,  the  beautiful castles,  the  fantastic  scene,  the  secret  spell,  the 
disconsolate  knight,  are  terms  chosen  with  the  utmost  felicity,  and 
strongly  recall  all  those  romantic  ideas  with  which  he  intended  to 
amuse  our  imagination.  Few  authors  are  more  successful  in  their 
imagery  than  Mr.  Addison;  and  few  passages  in  his  works,  or  in 
those  of  any  author,  are  more  beautiful  and  picturesque  than  that 
on  which  we  have  been  commenting. 

'  It  is  not  improbable,  that  something  like  this  may  be  the  state 
of  the  soul  after  its  first  separation,  in  respect  of  the  images  it  will 
receive  from  matter ;  though,  indeed,  the  ideas  of  colours  are  so 
pleasing  and  beautiful  in  the  imagination,  that  it  is  possible  the  soul 
will  not  be  deprived  of  them,  but,  perhaps,  find  them  excited  by 
some  other  occasional  cause,  as  they  are  at  present,  by  the  dif> 
ferent  impressions  of  the  subtile  matter  on  the  organ  of  the  sight.' 

As  all  human  things,  after  having  attained  the  summit,  begin  to 
decline,  we  must  acknowledge  that,  in  this  sentence,  there  is  a 
sensible  falling  off  from  the  beauty  of  what  went  before.  It  is  bro- 
ken and  deficient  in  unity.  Its  parts  are  not  sufficiently  compacted. 
It  contains,  besides,  some  faulty  expressions.  When  it  is  said, 
something  like  this  may  be  the  state  of  the  soul,  to  the  pronoun  inis, 
there  is  no  determined  antecedent;  it  refers  to  the  general  import 
of  the  preceding  description,  which,  as  I  have  several  times  remark- 
ed, always  rendered  style  clumsy  and  inelegant,  if  not  obscure- 
the  state  of  the  soul  after  its  first  separation,  appears  to  be  an  incom- 
plete phrase,  and  first,  seems  an  useless,  ,and  even  an   improper 

31 


842  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF  [lect.  xxm 

word.  More  distinct  if  he  had  said,state  of  the  soul  immediately  on 
its  separation  from  the  body.  The  adverbperhaps,  is  redundant,after 
having  just  before  said,  it  is  possible. 

'  I  have  here  supposed,  that  my  reader  is  acquainted  with  that 
great  modern  discovery,  which  is  at  present  universally  acknow- 
ledged by  all  the  inquirers  into  natural  philosophy :  namely,  that 
light  and  colours,  as  apprehended  by  the  imagination,  are  only  ideas 
in  the  mind,  and  not  qualities  that  have  any  existence  in  matter. 
As  this  is  a  truth  which  has  been  proved  incontestably  by  many  mo- 
dern philosophers,  and  is,  indeed,  one  of  the  finest  speculations  in 
that  science,  if  the  English  reader  would  see  the  notion  explained 
at  large,  he  may  find  it  in  the  eighth  chapter  of  the  second  book  of 
Mr.  Locke's  Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding.' 

In  these  two  concluding  sentences,  the  author,  hastening  to  finish, 
appears  to  write  rather  carelessly.  In  the  first  of  them,  a  manifest 
tautology  occurs,  when  he  speaks  of  what  is  universally  acknowledg- 
ed by  all  inquirers.  In  the  second,  when  he  calls  a  truth  which  has 
been  incontestably  proved;  first,  a  speculation,  and  afterwards  a  no 
tion,  the  language  surely  is  not  very  accurate.  When  he  adds,  one  of  the 
finest  speculations  in  that  science,  it  does  not,at  first,  appear  what  sci- 
ence he  means.  One  would  imagine,  he  meant  to  refer  to  modern  phi- 
losophers ;  for  natural  philosophy  (to  which,  doubtless,  he  refers) 
stands  at  much  too  great  a  distance  to  be  the  proper  or  obvious  an 
tecedent  to  the  pronoun  that.  The  circumstance  towards  the  close, 
if  the  English  reader  would  seethe  notion  explained  at  large,  he 
may  find  it,  is  properly  taken  notice  of  by  the  author  of  the  Elements  of 
Criticism,  as  wrongly  arranged,  and  is  rectified  thus:  the  English  rea- 
der, if  he  would  see  the  notion  explained  at  large,  may  find  it,  fyc. 

In  concluding  the  examination  of  this  paper,  we  may  observe, 
that  though  not  a  very  long  one,  it  exhibits  a  striking  view  both  of 
the  beauties,  and  the  defects,  of  Mr.  Addison's  style.  It  contains 
some  of  the  best,  and  some  of  the  worst,  sentences,  that  are  to  be 
found  in  his  works.  But  upon  the  whole,  it  is  an  agreeable  and 
elegant  essay. 


LECTURE  XXIII. 


CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF  THE  STYLE  IN  No.  414 
OF  THE  SPECTATOR. 

<Ip  we  consider  the  works  of  nature  and  art,  as  they  are  qualified 
to  entertain  the  imagination,  we  shall  find  the  last  very  defective  in 
comparison  of  the  former ;  for  though  they  may  sometimes  appear 
as  beautiful  or  strange,  they  can  have  nothing  in  them  of  that  vast 
ness  and  immensity  which  afford  so  great  ah  entertainment  to  the 
mind  of  the  beholder.' 

I  had  occasion  formerly  to  Observe,  that  an  introductory  sentence 
should  always  be  short  and  simple,  and  contain  no  more  matter  than 


lect.  xxiii.]    THE  STYLE  IN  SPECTATOR,  No.  414.     243 

is  necessary  for  opening  the  subject.  This  sentence  leads  to  a  re- 
petition of  this  observation,  as  it  contains  both  an  assertion  and  the 
proof  of  that  assertion ;  two  things  which,  for  the  most  part,  but  espe 
cially  at  first  setting  out,  are  with  more  advantage  kept  separate. 
It  would  certainly  have  been  better,  if  this  sentence  had  contained 
only  the  assertion,  ending  with  the  word  former;  and  if  a  new  one 
had  then  begun,  entering  on  the  proofs  of  nature's  superiority  over 
art,  which  is  the  subject  continued  to  the  end  of  the  paragraph. 
The  proper  division  of  the  period  I  shall  point  out,  after  having  first 
made  a  few  observations  which  occur  on  different  parts  of  it. 

If  we.  consider  the  works.  Perhaps  it  might  have  been  preferable, 
if  our  author  had  begun  with  saying,  when  we  consider  the  works. 
Discourse  ought  always  to  begin,  when  it  is  possible,  with  a  clear 
proposition.  The  if,  which  is  here  employed,  converts  the  sentence 
into  a  supposition,  which  is  always  in  some  degree  entangling,  and 
proper  to  be  used  only  when  the  course  of  reasoning  renders  it  ne- 
cessary. As  this  observation  however  may,  perhaps,  be  consider- 
ed as  over-refined,  and  as  the  sense  would  have  remained  the  same 
in  either  form  of  expression,  I  do  not  mean  to  charge  our  author 
with  any  error  on  this  account.  We  cannot  absolve  him  from  inac- 
curacy in  what  immediately  follows — the  works  of  nature  and  art. 
It  is  the  scope  of  the  author  throughout  this  whole  paper,  to  com- 
pare nature  and  art  together,and  to  oppose  them  in  several  views  10 
each  other.  Certainly,  therefore,  in  the  beginning,  he  ought  to 
have  kept  them  as  distinct  as  possible,  by  interposing  the  preposi- 
tion, and  saying,  the  works  of  nature  and  of  art.  As  the  words  stand 
at  present,  they  would  lead  us  to  think  that  he  is  going  to  treat  of 
these  works,  not  as  contrasted,  but  as  connected;  as  united  in  form 
ing  one  whole.  When  1  speak  of  body  and  soul  as  united  in  the 
human  nature,  I  would  interpose  neither  article  nor  preposition  be- 
tween them;  'Man  is  compounded  of  soul  and  body.'  But  the 
case  is  altered,  if  I  mean  to  distinguish  them  from  each  other ;  then 
I  represent  them  as  separate,  and  say, '  I  am  to  treat  of  the  inter- 
ests of  the  soul,  and  of  the  body.' 

Though  they  may  sometimes  appear  as  beautiful  or  strange.  I  can- 
not help  considering  this  as  a  loose  member  of  the  period.  It  does 
not  clearly  appear  at  first  what  the  antecedent  is  to  they.  In  reading 
onwards,  we  see  the  works  of  art  to  be  meant ;  but  from  the  struc- 
ture of  the  sentence,  they  might  be  understood  to  refer  to  the  former, 
as  well  as  to  the  last.  In  what  follows,  there  is  a  greater  ambiguity — 
may  sometimes  appear  as  beautiful  or  strange.  Itis  very  doubtful  in 
what  sense  we  are  to  understand  as,  in  this  passage.  For,  according 
as  it  is  accented  in  reading,  it  may  signify,  that  they  appear  equally 
beautiful  or  strange,  to  wit,  with  the  works  of  nature ;  and  then  it  has 
the  force  of  the  Latin  tarn:  or  it  may  signify  no  more  than  that  they 
appear  in  the  light  of  beautiful  and  strange;  and  then  it  has  the  force 
of  the  Lalin  tanquam,  without  importing  any  comparison.  An  ex- 
pression so  ambiguous,  is  always  faulty ;  and  it  is  doubly  so  here ; 
because,  if  the  author  intended  the  former  sense,  and  meant  (a? 
seems  most  probable)  to  employ  as  for  a  mark  of  comparison,  it  was 


244  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF         [lect.  xxiii 

necessaiy  to  have  mentioned  both  the  compared  objects:  whereas 
only  one  member  of  the  comparison  is  here  mentioned,  viz.  the 
works  of  art:  and  if  he  intended  the  latter  sense,  a*  was  in  that  case 
superfluous  and  encumbering,  and  he  had  better  ha/e  said  simply, ap- 
pear beautiful  or  strange.  The  epithet  strange,  which  Mr.  Addison 
applies  to  the  works  of  art,  cannot  be  praised.  Strange  works,  ap- 
pears not  by  any  means  a  happy  expression  to  signify  what  he  here 
intends,  which  is  new  or  uncommon. 

The  sentence  concludes  with  much  harmony  and  dignity  ;they  can 
have  nothing  in  them  of  that  vastness  and  immensity  which  afford 
so  great  an  entertainment  to  the  mind  of  the  beholder.  There  is 
here  a  fulness  and  grandeur  of  expression  well  suited  to  the  subject ; 
though,  perhaps,  entertainment  is  not  quite  the  proper  word  for  ex- 
pressing the  effect  which  vastness  and  immensity  have  upon  the  mind. 
Reviewing  the  observations  that  have  been  made  on  this  period,  it 
might,  1  think,with  advantage,  be  resolved  into  two  sentences,  some- 
what after  this  manner:  '  When  we  consider  the  works  of  nature 
and  of  art,  as  they  are  qualified  to  entertain  the  imagination,  we 
shall  find  the  latter  very  defective  in  comparison  of  the  former 
The  works  of  art  may  sometimes  appear  no  less  beautiful  or  uncom- 
mon than  those  of  nature;  but  they  can  have  nothing  of  that  vast- 
ness and  immensity  which  so  highly  transport  the  mind  of  the  be- 
holder.' 

'  The  one/  proceeds  our  author  in  the  next  sentence, 'may  be  as 
polite  and  delicate  as  the  other;  but  can  never  show  herself  so  au 
gust  and  magnificent  in  the  design/ 

The  one  and  the  other,  in  the  first  part  of  this  sentence,  must 
unquestionably  refer  to  the  works  of  nature  and  of  art.  For  of  these 
he  had  been  speaking  immediately  before;  and  with  reference  to 
the  plural  word,  works,  had  employed  the  plural  pronoun  they. 
But  in  the  course  of  the  sentence,  he  drops  this  construction ;  and 
passes  very  incongruously  to  the  personification  of  art — can  never 
show  herself.  To  render  his  style  consistent,  art,  and  not  the  works 
of  art,  should  have  been  made  the  nominative  in  this  sentence. 
Art  may  be  as  polite  and  delicate  as  nature,  but  can  never  show  her- 
self. Polite  is  a  term  oftener  applied  to  persons  and  to  manners,  than 
to  things;  and  is  employed  to  signify  their  being  highly  civilized. 
Polished,  or  refined,  was  the  idea  which  the  author  had  in  view. 
Though  the  general  turn  of  this  sentence  be  elegant,  yet,  in  order 
to  render  it  perfect,  I  must  observe,  that  the  concluding  words,  in 
the  design,  should  either  have  been  altogether  omitted,  or  something 
should  have  been  properly  opposed  to  them  in  the  preceding  mem- 
ber of  the  period,  thus:  '  Art  may,  in  the  execution,  be  as  polished 
and  delicate  as  nature;  but  in  the  design,  can  never  show  herself  so 
august  and  magnificent/ 

'There  is  something  more  bold  and  masterly  in  the  rough,  care- 
ess  strokes  of  nature,  than  in  the  nice  touches  and  embellishments 
of  art.' 

This  sentence  is  perfectly  happy  and  elegant :  and  carries,  in  all 
the  expressions,  that  curiosa  felicilus,  lor  winch  Mr.  Addison  is  so 


lect.  xxiii. J  THE  STYLE  IN  SPECTATOR,  No.  414.      245 

often  remarkable.  Bold andmasterly ',  are  words  applied  with  the 
utmost  propriety.  The  strokes  of  nature,  are  finely  opposed  to  the 
touches  of  art ;  and  the  rough  strokes  to  the  nice  touches  ;  the  former, 
painting  the  freedom  and  ease  of  nature,  and  the  other,  the  diminu 
rive  exactness  of  art;  while  both  are  introduced  before  us  as  differ- 
ent performers,  and  their  respective  merits  in  execution  very  justly 
contrasted  with  each  other. 

1  The  beauties  of  the  most  stately  garden  or  palace  lie  in  a  nar- 
row compass ;  the  imagination  immediately  runs  them  over,  and 
requires  something  else  to  gratify  her:  but  in  the  wide  fields  of  na 
ture,  the  sight  wanders  up  and  down  without  confinement,  and  i.- 
fed  with  an  infinite  variety  of  image?,  without  any  certain  stmt  or 
number.' 

This  sentence  is  not  altogether  so  correct  and  elegant  as  the  for- 
mer. It  carries,  however,  in  the  main,  the  character  of  our  author's 
style ;  not  strictly  accurate,  but  agreeable,  easy,  and  unaffected ; 
enlivened  too  with  a  slight  personification  of  the  imagination,  which 
gives  a  gayety  to  the  period.  Perhaps  it  had  been  better,  if  this 
personification  of  the  imagination,  with  which  the  sentence  is  intro- 
duced, had  been  continued  throughout,  and  not  changed  unneces- 
sarily, and  even  improperly,  into  sight,  in  the  second  member,  which 
is  contrary  both  to  unity  and  elegance.  It  might  have  stood  thus  : 
the  imagination  immediately  runs  them  over,  and  requires  some- 
thing else  to  gratify  her;  but  in  the  wide  fields  of  nature,  she  toan- 
ders  up  and  down  xoithout  confinement.  The  epithet  stately,  which 
the  author  uses  in  the  beginning  of  the  sentence,  is  applicable  with  more 
propriety  to  palaces  than  to  gardens.  The  close  of  the  sentence, 
without  any  certain  stint  or  number,  may  be  objected  to,  as  both 
superfluous  and  ungraceful.  It  might  perhaps  have  terminated  bet- 
ter in  this  manner  :  she  »°  fed  ivith  an  infinite  variety  of  images, 
and  wanders  up  and  down  without  confinement. 

t  For  this  reason,  we  always  find  the  poet  in  love  with  a  country 
life,  where  nature  appears  in  the  gieatest  perfection,  and  furnishes 
out  all  those  scenes  that  are  most  apt  to  delight  the  imagination.' 

There  is  nothing  in  this  sentence  to  attract  particular  attention. 
One  would  think  it  was  rather  the  cou ntry,  than  a  country  life,  on 
which  the  remark  here  made  should  rest.  A  country  life  may  be 
productive  of  simplicity  of  manners,  and  of  other  virtues:  but  it  is 
to  the  country  itself,  that  the  properties  here  mentioned  belong,  of 
displaying  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  furnishing  those  scenes  which 
delight  the  imagination. 

'  But  though  there  are  several  of  these  wild  scenes  that  are  more 
delightful  than  any  artificial  shows,  yet  we  find  the  works  of  nature 
still  more  pleasant,  the  more  they  resemble  those  of  art ;  for  in  this 
case,  our  pleasure  rises  from  a  double  principle ;  from  the  agreea- 
bleness  of  the  objects  to  the  eye,  and  from  their  similitude  to  other 
objects ;  we  are  pleased,  as  well  with  comparing  their  beauties,  as 
with  surveying  them,  and  can  represent  them  to  our  minds  either  as 
copies  or  as  originals.  Hence  it  is,  that  we  take  delight  in  a  pros- 
pect which  is  well  laid  out,  and  diversified  with  fields  and  meadows, 
2N 


S46  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF     [lect.  xxiii. 

woods  and  rivers;  in  those  accidental  landscapes  of  trees,  clouds, 
and  cities,  that  are  sometimes  found  in  the  veins  of  marble,  in  the 
curious  fretwork  of  rocks  and  grottos ;  and,  in  a  word,  in  any  thing 
that  hath  such  a  degree  of  variety  and  regularity  as  may  seem  the 
effect  of  design,  in  what  we  call  the  works  of  chance.' 

The  style  in  the  two  sentences  which  compose  this  paragraph,  is 
smooth  and  perspicuous.  It  lies  open  in  some  places  to  criticism; 
but  lest  the  reader  should  be  tired  of  what  he  may  consider  as  petty 
remarks,  I  shall  pass  over  any  which  these  sentences  suggest;  the 
rather,  too,  as  the  idea  which  they  present  to  us  of  nature's  resem- 
bling art,  of  art's  being  considered  as  an  original,  and  nature  as  a 
copy,  seems  not  very  distinct  nor  well  brought  out,  nor  indeed  very 
material  to  our  author's  purpose. 

'If  the  products  of  nature  rise  in  value,  according  as  they  more 
or  less  resemble  those  of  art,  we  may  be  sure  that  artificial  works 
receive  a  greater  advantage  from  the  resemblance  of  such  as  are  na- 
tural ;  because  here  the  similitude  is  not  only  pleasant,  but  the  pat- 
tern more  perfect.' 

It  is  necessary  to  our  present  design,  to  point  out  two  considera- 
ble inaccuracies  which  occur  in  this  sentence.  If  the  products  (he 
had  better  have  said  the  product ions)  of  nature  rise  in  value  accord- 
ing as  they  more  or  less  resemble  those  of  art.  Does  he  mean,  that 
these  productions  rise  in  value  both  accord  ing  as  they  more  resemble, 
and  as  they  less  resemble,  those  of  art?  His"  meaning  undoubtedly 
is.  that  they  rise  in  value  only,  according  as  they  more  resemble  them  : 
and,  therefore,  either  of  these  words,  or  less,  must  be  struck  out,  or 
the  sentence  must  run  thus — productions  of  nature  riseor  si?ik  in  va 
lue,  according  as  they  more  or  less  resemble.  The  present  construc- 
tion of  the  sentence,  has  plainly  been  owing  to  hasty  and  careless 
writing. 

The  other  inaccuracy  is  towards  the  end  of  the  sentence,  and  serves 
to  illustrate  a  rule  which  I  formerly  gave,  concerning  the  position 
of  adverbs.  The  author  says,  because  here  the  similitude  is  not  only 
pleasant,  but  the  pattern  more  perfect.  Here,  by  the  position  of  the 
adverb  only,  we  are  led  to  imagine  that  he  is  going  to  give  some  other 
property  of  the  similitude,  that  it  is  not  only  pleasant,  as  he  says, 
but  more  than  pleasant;  it  is  useful,  or,  on  some  account  or  other, 
valuable.  Whereas,  he  is  going  to  oppose  another  thing  to  the  si- 
militude itself,  and  not  to  this  property  of  its  being  pleasan  t ;  and, 
therefore, the  right  colocation,  beyond  doubt,  was,  because  here,  not 
only  the  similitude  is  pleasant,  but  the  pattern  more  perfect :  the 
eontrastlying,  not  between  pleasant  and  more  perfect,  but  between 
similitude  and  pattern.  Much  of  the  clearness  and  neatness  of  style 
depends  on  such  attentions  as  these. 

'  The  prettiest  landscape  I  ever  saw,  was  one  drawn  on  the  '.vails  of 
a  dark  room,  which  stood  opposite  on  one  side  to  a  navigable  river, 
and  on  the  other,  to  a  park.  The  experiment  is  very  common  in 
optics.' 

In  the  description  of  the  landscape  which  follows,  Mr.  Addison  is 
abundantly  happy :  but  in  this  introduction  to  it,  he  is  obscure  and  in 


lect.  xxiii.]  THE  STYLE  IN  SPECTATOR.  No.  414.       247 

distinct.  One  who  had  not  seen  the  experiment  of  the  camera  ob- 
scura, could  comprehend  nothing  of  what  he  meant.  And  even,  af- 
ter we  understand  what  he  points  at,  we  are  at  some  loss,  whether  to 
nnderstand  his  description  as  of  one  continued  landscape,  or  of 
two  different  ones,  produced  by  the  projection  of  the  two  camera 
obscuras  on  opposite  walls.  The  scene,  which  I  am  inclined  to 
think  Mr.  Addison  here  refers  to,  is  Greenwich  Park;  withthepros- 
pects  of  the  Thames,  as  seen  by  a  camera  obscura,  which  is  piaced 
in  a  small  room  in  the  upper  story  of  the  observatory ;  where  I  re- 
member to  have  seen,  many  years  ago,  the  whole  scene  here  describ- 
ed, corresponding  so  much  to  Mr.  Addison's  account  of  it  in  this 
passage,  that,  at  the  time,  it  recalled  it  to  my  memory. 

As  the  observatory  stands  in  the  middle  of  the  park,  it  overlooks, 
from  one  side,  both  the  river  and  the  park;  and  the  objects  afterwards 
mentioned,  the  ships,  the  trees,  and  the  deer,  are  presented  in  one 
view,  without  needing  any  assistance  from  opposite  walls.  Put  into 
plainer  language, the  sentence  might  run  thus:  'The  prettiest  land- 
scape I  ever  saw,  was  one  formed  by  a  camera  obscura,  a  common 
optical  instrument,  on  the  wall  of  a  darkroom,  which  overlooked  a 
navigable  river  and  a  park.' 

'Here  you  might  discover  the  waves  and  fluctuations  of  the  water 
in  strong  and  proper  colours,  with  the  picture  of  a  ship  entering  at 
one  end,  and  sailing  by  degrees  through  the  whole  piece.  On  another, 
there  appeared  the  green  shadows  of  trees,  waving  to  and  fro  with 
the  wind,  and  herds  of  deer  among  them  in  miniature,  leaping  about 
upon  the  wall.' 

Bating  one  or  two  small  inaccuracies,  this  is  beautiful  and  lively 
painting.  The  principal  inaccuracy  lies  in  the  connexion  of  the  two 
sentences,  here  and  on  another.  I  suppose  the  author  meant,  on  one 
side,  and  on  another  side.  As  it  stands,  another  is  ungrammatical,  hav- 
ing nothing  to  which  it  refers.  But  the  fluctuations  of  the  water,  the 
ship  entering  and  sailing  on  by  degrees,  the  trees  waving  in  the 
wind,  and  the  herds  of  deer  among  them  leaping  about,  is  all  very 
elegant,  and  gives  a  beautiful  conception  of  the  scene  meant  to  be 
described. 

'  I  must  confess,  the  novelty  of  such  a  sight  may  be  one  occasion 
of  its  pleasantness  to  the  imagination  ;  but  certainly  the  chief  reason 
is,  its  near  resemblance  to  nature ;  as  it  does  not  only, like  other  pic- 
tures, give  the  colour  and  figure,  but  the  motions  of  the  things  it  re- 
presents.' 

In  this  sentence  there  is  nothing  remarkable,  either  to  be  praised 
orblamed.  In  the  conclusion,  instead  of  the  things  it  represents,  the 
regularity  ofcorrect  style  requires  the  things luhichit  represents.  In 
c/ie  beginning,  as  one  occasion  and  the  chief  reason  are  opposed  to 
one  another,  I  should  think  it  better  to  have  repeated  the  same 
word  :  one  reason  of  its  pleasantness  to  the  imagination,  but  cer- 
tainly  the  chief  reason  is,  8,'C 

'  We  have  before  observed,  that  there  is  generally,  in  nature, 
something  more  grand  and  august  than  what  we  meet  with  in  the  cu- 
riosities of  art.     When,  therefore,  we  see  this  imitated  in  any  mea- 


248  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF     [lect.  xxm 

sure,  it  gives  us  a  nobler  and  more  exalted  kind  of  pleasure,  thau 
what  we  receive  from  the  nicer  and  more  accurate  productions  of 
art.' 

It  would  have  been  better  to  have  avoided  terminating  these  two 
sentences  in  a  manner  so  similar  to  each  other ;  curiosities  of  art 
— productions  of  art. 

'On  this  account,  our  English  gardens  are  not  so  entertaining  to 
the  fancy  as  those  in  France  and  Italy,  where  we  see  a  large  extent 
of  ground  covered  with  an  agreeable  mixture  of  garden  and  forest, 
which  represents  every  where  an  artificial  rudeness,  much  more 
charming  than  that  neatness  and  elegance  which  we  meet  with  in 
those  of  our  own  country/ 

The  expression,  represent  every  where  an  artificial  rudeness,  is  so 
inaccurate,  that  I  am  inclined  to  think,  what  stood  in  Mr.  Addison's 
manuscript  musthave  beenpresent  every  where.  For  the  mixture  of 
garden  and  forest  does  not  represent,  but  actually  exhibits  or  presents, 
artificial  rudeness.  That  mixture  represents  indeed  nattiral rudeness, 
that  is,  is  designed  to  imitate  it;  but  it  in  reality  is,  and  presents, 
artificial  rudeness. 

1  It  might  indeed  be  of  ill  consequence  to  the  public,  as  well  as 
unprofitable  to  private  persons,  to  alienate  so  much  ground  from 
pasturage  and  the  plough,  in  many  parts  of  a  country  that  is  so  well 
peopled  and  cultivated  to  a  far  greater  advantage.  But  why  may 
not  a  whole  estate  be  thrown  into  a  kind  of  garden  by  frequent 
plantations,  that  may  turn  as  much  to  the  profit  as  the  pleasure  01 
the  owner?  A  marsh  overgrown  with  willows,  or  a  mountain  shaded 
with  oaks,  are  not  only  more  beautiful,  but  more  beneficial,  than 
when  they  lie  bare  and  unadorned.  Fields  of  corn  make  a  pleasant 
prospect;  and  if  the  walks  were  a  little  taken  care  of  that  lie  be- 
tween them,  and  the  natural  embroidery  of  the  meadows  were 
helped  and  improved  by  some  small  additions  of  art,  and  the  seve- 
ral rows  of  hedges  were  set  off  by  trees  and  flowers  that  the  soil  was 
capable  of  receiving,  a  man  might  make  a  pretty  landscape  of  his 
own  possessions.' 

The  ideas  here  are  just,  and  the  style  is  easy  and  perspicuous, 
though  in  some  places  bordering  on  the  careless.  In  that  passage, 
for  instance,  if  the  ivalks  were  a  little  taken  care  of  that  lie  between 
them,  one  member  is  clearly  out  of  its  place,  and  the  turn  of  the  phrase 
a  little  taken  care  of,  is  vulgar  and  colloquial.  Much  better,  if  it 
had  run  thus :  if  a  little  care  were  bestowed  on  the  walks  that  lie 
between  them. 

'Writers  who  have  given  us  an  account  of  China,  tell  us,  the  inha- 
bitants of  that  country  laugh  at  the  plantations  of  our  Europeans, 
which  are  laid  out  by  the  rule  and  the  line;  because,  they  say,  any 
one  may  place  trees  in  equal  rows  and  uniform  figures.  They 
choose  rather  to  show  a  genius  in  works  of  this  nature,  and,  there- 
fore, always  conceal  the  art  by  which  they  direct  themselves.  They 
have  a  word,  it  seems,  in  their  language,  by  which  they  express  r.ne 
particular  beauty  of  a  plantation,  that  thus  strikes  the  imagination  at 
first  sight,  without  discovering  what  it  is,  has  so  agreeable  an  efiV\.' 


lect.  xxin.]  THE  STYLE  IN  SPECTATOR,  No.  414.      249 

These  sentences  furnish  occasion  for  no  remark,  except  that  in 
the  last  of  them,  particular  is  improperly  used  instead  of  peculiar; 
the  peculiar  beauty  of  a  plantation  that  thus  strikes  the  imagina- 
tion, was  the  phrase  to  have  conveyed  the  idea  which  the  author 
meant ;  namely,  the  beauty  which  distinguishes  itfrom  plantations  of 
another  kind. 

'Our  British  gardeners,  on  the  contrary,  instead  of  humouring 
nature,  love  to  deviate  from  it  as  much  as  possible.  Our  trees  rise 
in  cones,  globes,  and  pyramids.  We  see  the  marks  of  the  scissors 
on  every  plant  and  bush.' 

These  sentences  are  lively  and  elegant.  They  make  an  agreea- 
ble diversity  from  the  strain  of  those  which  went  before;  and  are 
marked  with  the  hand  of  Mr.  Addison.  I  have  to  remark  only, 
that  in  the  phrase,  instead  of  humouring  nature,  love  to  deviate  from 
it — humouring  and  deviating,  are  terms  not  properly  opposed  to 
each  other;  a  sort  of  personification  of  nature  is  begun  in  the  first 
of  them,  which  is  notsupported  in  the  second.  To  humouring,  was 
to  have  been  opposed  thwarting;  or  \f  deviating  was  kept,  following, 
or  going  along  with  nature,  was  to  have  been  used. 

'I  do  not  -know  whether  I  am  singular  in  my  opinion,  but  for  my 
own  part,  I  would  rather  look  upon  a  tree,  in  all  its  luxuriancy  and 
diffusion  of  boughs  and  branches,  than  when  it  is  thus  cut  and  trim- 
med into  a  mathematical  figure ;  and  cannot  but  fancy  that  an  or- 
chard, in  flower,  looks  infinitely  more  delightful,  than  all  the  little 
labyrinths  of  the  most  finished  parterre.' 

This  sentence  is  extremely  harmonious,  and  every  way  beautiful. 
It  carries  all  the  characteristics  of  our  author's  natural,  graceful,  and 
flowing  language.  A  tree,  in  all  its  luxuriancy  and  diffusion  of 
boughs  and  branches,  is  a  remarkably  happy  expression.  The  au- 
thor seems  to  become  luxuriant  in  describing  an  object  which  is  so, 
and  thereby  renders  the  sound  a  perfect  echo  to  the  sense. 

'But  as  our  great  modellers  of  gardens  have  their  magazines  of 
plants  to  dispose  of,  it  is  very  natural  in  them  to  tear  up  all  the 
beautiful  plantations  of  fruit  trees,  and  contrive  a  plan  that  may 
most  turn  to  their  profit,  in  taking  off  their  evergreens,  and  the  like 
moveable  plants,  with  which  their  shops  are  plentifully  stocked.' 

An  author  should  always  study  to  conclude,  when  it  is  in  his  pow- 
er, with  grace  and  dignity.  It  is  somewhat  unfortunate,  that  this 
paper  did  not  end,  as  it  might  very  well  have  done,  with  the  former 
beautiful  period.  The  impression  left  on  the  mind  by  the  beauties 
of  nature,  with  which  he  had  been  entertaining  us,  would  then  have 
been  more  agreeable.  But  in  this  sentence  there  is  a  great  falling 
off;  and  we  return  with  pain  from  those  pleasing  objects,  to  the 
insignificant  contents  of  a  nursery-man's  shop. 


S2 


(  250  ) 

LECTURE  XXIV. 


CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF  THE  STYLE  IN  A 
PASSAGE  OF  DEAN  SWIFT'S  WRITINGS. 

My  design  in  the  four  preceding  lectures,  was  not  merely  lo  ap- 
preciate the  merit  of  Mr.  Addison's  style,  by  pointing  out  the  faults 
and  the  beauties  that  are  mingled  in  the  writings  of  that  great  aulhor. 
They  were  not  composed  with  any  view  to  gain  the  reputation  of  a 
critic:  but  intended  for  the  assistance  of  such  as  are  desirous  of 
studying  the  most  proper  and  elegant  construction  of  sentences  in 
the  English  language.  To  such,  it  is  hoped,  that  they  may  be  of 
advantage;  as  the  proper  application  of  rules  respecting  style,  will 
always  be  best  learned  by  means  of  the  illustration  which  exam- 
ples afford.  I  conceive  that  examples,  taken  from  the  writings  of 
an  author  so  justly  esteemed,  would  on  that  account,  not  only  be 
more  attended  to,  but  would  also  produce  this  good  effect,  of  fami- 
liarizing those  who  study  composition  with  the  style  of  a  writer,  from 
whom  they  may,  upon  the  whole,  derive  great  benefit.  With  the 
same  view,  I  shall,  in  this  lecture,  give  one  critical  exercise  more  of 
the  same  kind,  upon  the  style  of  an  author,  of  a  different  character, 
Dean  Swift;  repeating  the  intimation  I  gave  formerly,  that  such  as 
stand  in  need  of  no  assistance  of  this  kind,  and  who,  therefore,  will 
naturally  consider  such  minute  discussions  concerning  the  propriety 
of  words,  and  structure  of  sentences,  as  beneath  their  attention,  had 
best  pass  over  what  will  seem  to  them  a  tedious  part  of  the  work. 

I  formerly  gave  the  general  character  of  Dean  Swift's  style.  He  is 
esteemed  one  of  our  most  correct  writers.  His  style  is  of  the  plain 
and  simple  kind;  free  from  all  affectation,  and  all  superfluity;  per- 
spicuous, manly,  and  pure.  These  are  its  advantages.  But  we  are 
not  to  look  for  much  ornament  and  grace  in  it.*  On  the  contrary, 
Dean  Swift  seems  to  have  slighted  and  despised  the  ornaments  of 
language,  rather  than  to  have  studied  them.  His  arrangement  is 
often  loose  and  negligent.  In  elegant,  musical,  and  figurative  lan- 
guage, he  is  much  inferior  to  Mr.  Addison.  His  manner  of  writing 
carries  in  it  the  character  of  one  who  rests  altogether  upon  his  sense, 
and  aims  at  no  more  than  giving  his  meaning  in  a  clear  and  concise 
manner. 

That  part  of  his  writings  which  I  shall  now  examine,  is  the  begin- 
ning of  his  treatise,  entitled,  '  A  Proposal  for  correcting,  improving, 
and  ascertaining  the  English  Tongue,'  in  a  letter  addressed  to  the  Earl 

*  I  am  glad  to  find  that,  in  my  judgment  concerning  this  author's  composition 
!  have  coincided  with  tlie  opinion  of  a  very  able  critic.  '  This  easy  and  safe  con- 
veyance of  meaning,  it  was  Swift's  desire  to  attain,  and  for  having  attained,  he 
certainly  deserves  praise,  though  perhaps,  not  the  highest  praise.  For  purpose? 
merely  didactic,  when  something  is  to  be  told  that  was  not  known  before,  it  is  in 
the  hiffhest  degree  proper;  but  against  that  inattention  by  which  known  truth- 
are  suffered  to  be  neglected,  it  makes  no  provision ;  it  instructs,  but  -,'oes  not  persuade 
Johnson's  Lives  of  the   Poets  ;  in  Swift. 


lect.  xxiv.]  DEAN  SWIFT'S  STYLE  251 

of  Oxford,  then  Lord  High  Treasurer.  I  was  led,  by  the  nature  ol 
the  subject,  to  choose  this  treatise ;  but,  in  justice  to  the  Dean,  J 
must  observe,  that,  after  having  examined  it,  I  do  not  esteem  it  one 
of  his  most  correct  productions ;  but  am  apt  to  think  it  has  been 
more  hastily  composed  than  some  other  of  them.  It  bears  the  title 
and  form  of  a  letter;  but  it  is,  however,  in  truth,  a  treatise  designed 
for  the  public  ;  and  therefore,  in  examining  it,  we  cannot  proceed 
upon  the  indulgence  due  to  an  epistolary  correspondence.  When 
a  man  addresses  himself  to  a  friend  only,  it  is  sufficient  if  he  makes 
himself  fully  understood  by  him  ;  but  when  an  author  writes  for  the 
public,  whether  he  employ  the  form  of  an  epistle  or  no1,  we  are  al- 
ways entitled  to  expect,  that  he  shall  express  himself  with  accuracy 
and  care.     Our  author  begins  thus  : 

*  What  I  had  the  honour  of  mentioning  to  your  Lordship,  some 
time  ago,  in  conversation,  was  not  a  new  thought,  just  then  started  by 
accident  or  occasion,  but  the  result  of  long  reflection :  and  I  have 
been  confirmed  in  my  sentiments  by  the  opinion  of  some  very  judi- 
cious persons  with  whom  I  consulted.' 

The  disposition  of  circumstances  in  a  sentence,  such  as  serve  to 
limit,  or  to  qualify  some  assertion,  or  to  denote  time  and  place,  I  for- 
merly showed  to  be  a  matter  of  nicety ;  and  I  observed,  that  it  ought 
to  be  always  held  a  rule,  not  to  crowd  such  circumstances  together, 
but  rather  to  intermix  them  with  more  capital  words,  in  such  different 
parts  of  the  sentence  as  can  admit  them  naturally.  Here  are  two  cir- 
cumstances of  this  kind  placed  together,  which  had  better  have  been 
separated;  Sometime  ago  in  conversatio?i — better  thus:  What  I  had 
the  honour,  sometime  ago,  of  mentioning  to  your  lordship  in  conver- 
sation— was  not  anew  thought,  proceeds  our  author,  startedby  acci- 
dent or  occasion :  the  different  meaning  of  these  two  words  may  not  at 
first  occur.  They  have,  however,  a  distinct  meaning,  and  are  pro- 
perly used  :  for  it  is  one  very  laudable  property  of  our  author's  style, 
that  it  is  seldom  encumbered  with  superfluous,  synonymous  words. 
Started  by  accident,  is,  fortuitously,  or  at  random  ;  started  by  occa- 
sion, is  by  some  incident,  which  at  that  time  gave  birth  to  it.  His 
meaning  is,  that  it  was  not  a  new  thought  which  either  casually 
sprung  up  in  his  mind,  or  was  suggested  to  him  for  the  first  time,  by 
the  train  of  the  discourse :  but,  as  he  adds,  was  the  ?,esult  of  long 
reflection.     He  proceeds : 

'  They  all  agreed,  that  nothing  would  be  of  greater  use  towards  the 
improvement  of  knowledge  and  politeness,  than  some  effectual  me- 
thod for  correcting,  enlarging,  and  ascertaining  our  language ;  and 
they  think  it  a  work  very  possible  to  be  compassed  under  the  protec- 
tion of  a  prince,  the  countenance  and  encouragement  of  a  minis- 
try, and  the   care  of  proper  persons  chosen  for  such  an  undertak- 

This  is  an  excellent  sentence ;  clear,  and  elegant.  The  words  are 
all  simple,  well  chosen,  and  expressive ;  and  are  arranged  in  the  most 
proper  order.  It  is  a  harmonious  period  too,  which  is  a  beauty  not 
frequent  in  our  author.  The  last  part  of  it  consists  of  three  mem- 
bers, which  gradually  rise  and  swell  one  above  another,  without  any 


252  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF        [lect.  xxiv 

affected  or  unsuitable  pomp;  under  the  protection  of  a  prince,  the 
countenance  and  encouragement  of  a  ministry,  and  the  care  of  pro- 
per persons  chosen  for  such  anunder  taking.  We  may  remark,  in  the 
beginning  of  the  sentence,  the  proper  use  of  the  preposition  towards— 
g  r  eater  use  towards  the  improvement  of  knowledge  and politeness— 
importing  the  pointing  or  tendency  of  any  thing  to  a  certain  end  ; 
which  could  not  have  been  so  well  expressed  by  the  preposition 
for,  commonly  employed  in  place  of  towards,  by  authors  who  are 
less  attentive,  than  Dean  Swift  was,  to  the  force  of  words. 

One  fault  might,  perhaps,  be  found,  both  with  this  and  tbe  former 
sentence,  considered  as  introductory  ones.  We  expect,  that  an  in- 
troduction is  to  unfold,  clearly  and  directly,  the  subject  that  is  to  be 
treated  of.  In  the  first  sentence,  our  author  ha3  told  us,  of  a  thought 
he  mentioned  to  his  Lordship  in  conversation,  which  had  been  the 
result  of  long  reflection,  and  concerning  which  he  had  consulted  ju- 
dicious persons.  But  what  that  thought  was,  we  are  never  told  di- 
rectly. We  gather  it  indeed  from  the  second  sentence,  wherein  he 
informs  us,  in  what  these  judicious  persons  agreed ;  namely,  that 
some  method  for  improving  the  language  was  both  useful  and  practi- 
cable. But  this  indirect  method  of  opening  the  subject,  would  have 
been  very  faulty  in  a  regular  treatise ;  though  the  ease  of  the  epis- 
tolary form,  which  our  author  here  assumes  in  addressing  his  patron, 
may  excuse  it  in  the  present  case. 

1 1  was  glad  to  find  your  Lordship's  answer  in  so  different  a  style 
from  what  hath  commonly  been  made  use  of,  on  the  like  occasions,  for 
some  years  past;  that  all  such  thoughts  must  be  deferred  to  a  timeof 
peace;  a  topic  which  some  have  carried  so  far,  that  they  would  not 
have  us,  by  any  means,  think  of  preserving  our  civil  and  religious 
constitution,  because  we  are  engaged  in  a  war  abroad.' 

This  sentence  also  is  clear  and  elegant;  only  there  is  one  inaccu- 
racy, when  he  speaks  of  his  Lordship's  answer  being  in  so  different 
a  style  from  what  had  formerly  been  used.  His  answer  to  what?  or  to 
whom  ?  For  from  any  thing  going  before,  it  does  not  appear  that  any 
application  or  address  had  been  made  to  his  Lordship  by  those  per- 
sons, whose  opinion  was  mentioned  in  the  preceding  sentence;  and  to 
whom  the  answer,  here  spoken  of,  naturally  refers.  There  is  a  little 
indistinctness,  as  I  before  observed,  in  our  author's  manner  of  in- 
troducing his  subject  here.  We  may  observe  too  that  the  phrase, 
glad  to  find  your  answer  in  so  different  a  style,  though  abundantly 
suited  to  the  language  of  conversation,  or  of  a  familiar  letter,  yet,  in  re- 
gular composition,  requires  an  additional  word — glad  to  find  your 
answer  run  in  so  different  a  style. 

'  It  will  be  among  the  distinguishing  marks  of  your  ministry,  my 
Lord,  that  you  have  a  genius  above  all  such  regards,  and  that  no 
reasonable  proposals,  for  the  honour,  the  advantage,  or  ornament  ol 
your  country,  however  foreign  to  your  immediate  office,  was  ever 
neglected  by  you.' 

The  phrase,  a  genius  above  all  such  regards,  both  seems  some- 
what harsh,  and  does  not  clearly  express  what  the  author  means, 
namely,  the  confined  views  of  those  who  neglected  every  thing  that 


lect.xxiv.]  DEAN  SWIFT'S  STYLE.  253 

belonged  to  the  arts  of  peace  in  the  time  of  war.  Except  this  ex- 
pression, there  is  nothing  that  can  be  subject  to  the  least  reprehen- 
sion in  this  sentence,  nor  in  all  that  follows,  to  the  end  of  the  para- 
graph. 

*  I  confess,  the  merit  of  this  candour  and  condescension  is  very 
much  lessened,  because  your  Lordship  hardly  leaves  us  room  to  offer 
our  good  wishes;  removing  all  our  difficulties,  and  supplying  our 
wants,  faster  than  the  most  visionary  projector  can  adjusthis  schemes. 
And  tlierefore,my  Lord,  the  design  of  this  paper  is  not  so  much  tc 
offer  you  ways  and  means,  as  to  complain  of  a  grievance,  the  redres- 
sing of  which  is  to  be  your  own  work,  as  much  as  that  of  paying  the 
nation's  debts,  or  opening  a  trade  into  the  South  sea ;  and,  though 
not  of  such  immediate  benefit  as  either  of  these,  or  any  other  of  your 
glorious  actions,  yet,  perhaps,  in  future  ages,  not  less  to  your  hon- 
our.* 

The  compliments  which  the  Dean  here  pays  to  his  patron,  are  ve- 
ry high  and  strained ;  and  show  that,  with  all  his  surliness,  he  was 
as  capable,  on  some  occasions,  of  making  his  court  to  a  great  man  by 
flattery,  as  other  writers.  However,  with  respect  to  the  style,  which 
is  the  sole  object  of  our  present  consideration,  every  thing  here,  as 
far  as  appears  to  me,  is  faultless.  In  these  sentences,  and,  indeed, 
throughout  this  paragraph,  in  general,  which  we  have  now  ended,  our 
author's  style  appears  to  great  advantage.  We  see  that  ease  and 
simplicity,  that  correctness  and  distinctness,  which  particuJarly  cha- 
racterize it.  It  is  very  remarkable,  how  few  Latinised  words  Dean 
Swift  employs.  No  writer,  in  our  language,  is  so  purely  English  a.< 
he  is,  or  borrows  so  little  assistance  from  words  of  foreign  derivation. 
From  none  can  we  take  a  better  model  of  the  choice  and  proper  sig- 
nificancy  of  words.  It  is  remarkable,  in  the  sentences  we  have  now 
before  us,  how  plain  all  the  expressions  are,  and  yet,  at  the  same 
time,  how  significant;  and,  in  the  midst  of  that  high  strain  cf  com- 
pliment into  which  he  rises,  how  little  there  is  of  pomp,  or  glare  of 
expression.  How  very  few  writers  can  preserve  this  manly  temper- 
ance of  style;  or  would  think  a  compliment  of  this  nature  supported 
with  sufficient  dignity,  unless  they  had  embellished  it  with  some  of 
those  high-sounding  words,  whose  chief  effect  is  nootherthantogive 
their  language  a  stiff  and  forced  appearance? 

'My  Lord,  I  do  here,  inthenan^e  of  all  the  learned  and  polite  per- 
sons of  the  nation,  complain  to  your  Lordship,  as  first  minister,  that 
our  language  is  extremely  imperfect ;  that  its  daily  improvements  are 
by  no  means  in  proportion  to  its  daily  corruptions;  that  the  preten- 
ders to  polish  and  refine  it,  have  chiefly  multiplied  abuses  and  absur- 
dities; and  that,  in  many  instances,  it  offends  against  every  part  ol 
grammar.' 

The  turn  of  this  sentence  is  extremely  elegant.  He  had  spoken 
before  of  a  grievance  for  which  he  sought  redress,  and  he  carries  on 
the  allusion,  by  entering  here  directly  on  his  subject,  in  the  style  of 
a  public  representation  presented  to  the  minister  of  state.  One  im- 
perfection, however,  there  is  in  this  sentence,  which  luckily  for  our 
purpose,  serves  to  illustrate  a  rule  before  giy»n.  concerning  the  posi- 
2  0 


254  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF        [lect.  xxiv 

tion  of  adverbs,  so  as  to  avoid  ambiguity.  It  is  in  the  middle  of  the 
sentence ;  that  the  pre  tenders  topolish  andrefine  it, have  chiefly  mul- 
tiplied abuses  and  absurdities.  Now,  concerning  the  importof  this  ad- 
verb, chiefly,  \  ask,  whether  it  signifies  that  these  pretenders  to  polish 
the  language,  have  been  the  chief  persons  who  have  multiplied 
its  abuses,  in  distinction  from  others,  or,  that  the  chief  thing  which 
these  pretenders  have  done,  is  to  multiply  the  abuses  of  our  language 
in  opposition  to  their  doing  any  thing  to  refineitl  These  two  mean- 
ings are  really  different ;  and  yet,  by  the  position  which  the  word 
chiefly  has  in  the  sentence,  we  are  left  at  a  loss  in  which  to  ui  derstand 
it.  The  construction  would  lead  us  rather  to  the  latter  sense ;  that 
the  chief  thing  which  these  pretenders  have  done,  is  to  multiply  the 
abuses  of  our  language.  But  it  is  more  than  probable,  that  the  for- 
mer sense  was  what  the  Dean  intended,  as  it  carries  more  of  his  usual 
satirical  edge  ;  *  that  the  pretended  refiners  of  our  language  were, 
in  fact,  its  chief  corrupters ;'  on  which  supposition,  his  words  ought 
to  have  run  thus:  that  the  pretenders  to  polish  and  refine  it,  have 
been  the  chief  persons  to  multiply  its  abuses  and  absurdities;  which 
would  have  rendered  the  sense  perfectly  clear. 

Perhaps,  too,  there  might  be  ground  for  observing  farther  upon 
this  sentence,  that  as  language  is  the  object  with  which  it  sets  out; 
that  our  language  is  extremely  imperfect;  and  as  there  follows  an  enu- 
meration concerning  language,  in  three  particulars,  it  had  been  bet- 
ter if  language  had  been  kept  the  ruling  word,  or  the  nominative  to 
every  verb,  without  changingthe  construction ;  by  mzkingpretenders 
the  ruling  word,  as  is  done  in  the  second  member  of  the  enumeration, 
and  then,  in  the  third,  returning  again  to  the  former  word,  language. 
That  the  pretenders  to  polish — and  that,  in  many  instances,  it  of- 
fends— I  am  persuaded,  that  the  structure  of  the  sentence  would  have 
been  more  neat  and  happy,  and  its  unity  more  complete,  if  the  mem- 
bers of  it  had  been  arranged  thus:  'That  our  language  is  extremely 
imperfect;  that  its  daily  improvements  are  by  no  means  in  proportion 
to  its  daily  corruptions;  that,  in  many  instances,  it  offends  against 
every  part  of  grammar:  and  that  the  pretenders  to  polish  and  refine 
it,  have  been  the  chief  persons  to  multiply  its  abuses  and  absurdities.' 
This  degree  of  attention  seemed  proper  to  be  bestowed  on  such  a 
sentence  as  this,  in  order  to  show  how  it  might  have  been  conducted 
after  the  most  perfect  manner.     Our  author,  after  having  said, 

'  Lest  your  Lordship  should  think  my  censure  too  severe,  I  shall 
take  leave  to  be  more  particular;'  proceeds  in  the  following  para- 
graph : 

'I  believe  your  Lordship  will  agree  with  me,  in  the  reason  why 
our  language  is  less  refined  than  those  of  Italy,  Spain,  or  France.' 

I  am  borry  to  say,  that  now  we  shall  have  less  to  commend  in 
nur  author.  For  the  whole  of  this  paragraph,  on  which  we  are 
entering,  is  in  truth,  perplexed  and  inaccurate.  Even  in  this  short 
sentence,  we  may  discern  an  inaccuracy — ivhy  our  language  is  less 
refined  than  those  of  Italy,  Spain,  or  France;  putting  the  pronoun 
those  in  the  plural,  when  the  antecedent  substantive  to  which  it  re- 
fers is  in  the  singular,  our  language.     Instances  of  this  kind  maj 


~ect.xxiv.]         DEAN  SWIFT'S  STYLE.  2bb 

sometimes  be  found  in  English  authors;  but  they  sound  harsh  to  the 
ear,  and  are  certainly  contrary  to  the  purity  of  grammar.  By  a 
very  little  attention,  this  inaccuracy  might  have  been  remedied ; 
and  the  sentence  have  been  made  to  run  much  better  in  this  way ; 
'  why  our  language  is  less  refined  than  the  Italian,  Spanish,  or  French.' 

<  It  is  plain,  that  the  Latin  tongue,  in  its  purity,  was  never  in  this 
island ;  towards  the  conquest  of  which,  few  or  no  attempts  were 
made  till  the  time  of  Claudius;  neither  was  that  language  ever  so 
vulgar  in  Britain,  as  it  is  known  to  have  been  in  Gaul  and  Spair.' 
To  say  that  the  Latin  tongue,  in  its  purity,  ivas  never  in  this  island, 
is  very  careless  style ;  it  ought  to  have  been,  was  never  spoken  in  this 
island.  In  the  progress  of  the  sentence,  he  means  to  give  a  reason 
why  the  Latin  was  never  spoken  in  its  purity  amongst  us,  because 
our  island  was  not  conquered  by  the  Romans  till  after  the  purity 
of  their  tongue  began  to  decline.  But  this  reason  ought  to  have 
been  brought  out  more  clearly.  This  might  easily  have  been  done, 
and  the  relation  of  the  several  parts  of  the  sentence  to  each  c  iher 
much  better  pointed  out  by  means  of  a  small  variation ;  tnus :  '  It 
is  plain  that  the  Latin  tongue  in  its  purity  was  never  spoken  in  this 
island,  as  few  or  no  attempts  towards  the  conquest  of  it  were  made 
till  the  time  of  Claudius.'  He  adds,  neither  was  that  language  ever 
so  vulgar  in  Britain.  Vulgar  was  one  of  the  worst  words  he  could 
have  chosen  for  expressing  what  he  means  here  :  namely,  that  the 
Latin  tongue  was  at  no  time  so  general,  or  so  much  in  common  use, 
in  Britain,  as  it  is  known  to  have  been  in  Gaul  and  Spain.  Vulgar, 
when  applied  to  language,  commonly  signifies  impure,  or  debased 
language,  such  as  is  spoken  by  the  low  people,  which  is  quite  oppo- 
site to  the  author's  sense  here;  for,  instead  of  meaning  to  say,  that 
the  Latin  spoken  in  Britain  was  not  so  debased,  as  what  was  spoken 
in  Gaul  and  Spain ;  he  means  just  the  contrary,  and  had  been  tell- 
ing us,  that  we  never  were  acquainted  with  the  Latin  at  all,  till  its 
purity  began  to  be  corrupted. 

1  Further,  we  find  that  the  Roman  legions  here,  were  at  length 
all  recalled  to  help  their  country  against  the  Goths  and  other  barba- 
rous invaders.' 

The  chief  scope  of  this  sentence  is,  to  give  a  reason  why  the  La- 
tin tongue  did  not  strike  any  deep  root  in  this  island,  on  account  of 
the  short  continuance  of  the  Romans  in  it.     He  goes  on  : 

'  Meantime  the  Br'tons,  left  to  shift  for  themselves,  and  daily  ha- 
lassed  by  cruel  inroads  from  the  Picts,  were  forced  to  call  in  the 
Saxons  for  their  defence ;  who,  consequently,  reduced  the  greatest 
part  of  the  island  to  their  own  power,  drc^e  the  Britons  into  the 
most  remote  and  mountainous  parts,  and  the  rest  of  the  country,  i^ 
customs,  religion,  and  language,  became  wholly  Saxon.' 

This  is  a  very  exceptionable  sentence.  First,  the  phrase  left  to 
shift  for  themselves,  is  rather  a  low  phrase,  and  too  much  in  the  fami- 
liar style  to  be  proper  in  a  grave  treatise.  Next  as  the  sentence  ad- 
vances— forced  to  call  in  the  Saxons  for  their  defence, who  conse- 
quently reduced  the  greatest  part  of  the  island  to  their  own  power. 
What  is  the  meaning  of  consequently  here?  If  it  means  '  afterwards,' 


255  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF      [lect.  xxiv 

or,  'in  progress  of  time,'  this,  certainly,  is  not  a  sense  in  which  con 
w.quently  is  often  taken  ;  and  therefore  the  expression  is  chargeable 
with  obscurity.  The  adverb,  consequently,  in  its  most  common  ac- 
ceptation, denotes  one  thing  following  from  another,  as  an  effect 
from  a  cause.  If  he  uses  it  in  this  sense,  and  means  that  the  Britons' 
being  subdued  by  the  Saxons,  was  a  necessary  consequence  of  their 
having""called  in  these  Saxons  to  their  assistance,  this  consequence 
is  drawn  too  abruptly,  and  needed  more  explanation.  For  though 
it  has  often  happened,  that  nations  have  been  subdued  by  their  own 
auxiliaries,  yet  this  is  not  a  consequence  of  such  a  nature  that  it  can 
be  assumed,  as  it  seems  here  to  be  done,  for  a  first  and  self-evident 
principle.  But  further,  what  shall  we  say  to  this  phrase,  reduced  the 
greatest  part  of  the  island  to  their  own  power?  we  say,  reduce  to 
rule,  reduce  to  practice  ;  we  can  say,  that  one  nation  reduces  an- 
other to  subjection.  But  when  do minion  or  power  is  used,  we  always, 
as  far  as  I  know,  say,  reduce  under  their  power.  Reduce  to  their  power 
is  so  harsh  and  uncommon  an  expression,  that,  though  Dean  Swift's 
authority  in  language  be  very  great,  yet  in  the  use  of  this  phrase, 
I  am  of  opinion  that  it  would  not  be  safe  to  follow  his  example. 

Besides  these  particular  inaccuracies,  this  sentence  is  chargeable 
with  want  of  unity  in  the  composition  of  the  whole.  The  persons 
and  the  scene  are  too  often  changed  upon  us.  First,  the  Britons 
are  mentioned,  who  are  harassed  by  inroads  from  the  Picts;  next, 
the  Saxons  appear,  who  subdue  the  greatest  part  of  the  island,  and 
drive  the  Britons  into  the  mountains;  and,  lastly,  the  rest  of  the 
country  is  introduced,  and  a  description  given  of  the  change  made 
upon  it.  All  this  forms  a  group  of  various  objects,  presented  in  such 
quick  succession,  that  the  mind  finds  it  difficult  to  comprehend  them 
under  one  view.  Accordingly,  it  is  quoted  in  the  Elements  of  Cri- 
ticism, as  an  instance  of  a  sentence  rendered  faulty  by  the  breach  of 
unity. 

'This  I  take  to  be  the  reason  why  there  are  more  Latin  words 
remaining  in  the  British  than  the  old  Saxon;  which,  excepting 
some  few  variations  in  the  orthography,  is  the  same  in  most  original 
words  with  our  present  English,  as  well  as  with  the  Cerman  and 
other  northern  dialects.'  i 

This  sentence  is  faulty,  somewhat  in  the  same  manner  with  the 
last.  It  is  loose  in  the  connexion  of  its  parts;  and  besides  this,  it 
is  also  too  loosely  connected  with  the  preceding  sentence.  What 
he  had  there  said,  concerning  the  Saxons  expelling  the  Britons, 
and  changing  the  customs,  the  religion,  and  the  language  of  the 
country,  is  a  clear  and  good  reason  for  our  present  language  being 
Saxon  rather  than  British.  This  is  the  inference  which  we  would 
naturally  expect  him  to  draw  from  the  premises  just  before  laid 
down :  but  when  he  tells  us,  that  this  is  the  reason  why  there  are  more 
Latin  words  remaining  in  the  British  tongue  than  in  the  old  Saxon, 
we  are  presently  at  a  stand.  No  reason  for  this  inference  appears. 
If  it  can  be  gathered  at  all  from  the  foregoing  deduction,  it  is  ga- 
thered only  imperfectly.  For,  as  he  had  told  us,  that  the  Britons 
had  some  connexion  with  the  Romans,  he  should  have  also  told  us. 


lect.  xxiv.]  DEAN  SWIFT'S  STYLE.  257 

in  order  to  make  out  his  inference,  that  the  Saxons  never  had  any. 
The  truth  is,  the  whole  of  this  paragraph  concerning  the  influence 
of  the  Latin  tongue  upon  ours,  is  careless,  perplexed,  and  obscure. 
His  argument  required  to  have  been  more  fully  unfolded,  in  order 
to  make  it  be  distinctly  apprehended,  and  to  give  it  its  due  force.  In 
the  next  paragraph,  he  proceeds  to  discourse  concerning  the  influ- 
ence of  the  French  tongue  upon  our  language.  The  style  becomes 
more  clear,  though  not  remarkable  for  great  beauty  or  elegance. 

'  E  Ivvard  the  Confessor  having  lived  long  in  France,  appears  to 
be  the  first  who  introduced  any  mixture  of  the  French  tongue  with 
the  Saxon;  the  court  affecting  what  the  Prince  was  fond  of,  and 
others  taking  it  up  for  a  fashion,  as  it  is  now  with  us.  William  the 
Conqueror  proceeded  much  further,  bringing  over  with  him  vast 
numbers  of  that  nation,  scattering  them  in  every  monastery,  giving 
them  great  quantities  of  land,  directing  all  pleadings  to  be  in  that  lan- 
guage, and  endeavouring  to  make  it  universal  in  the  kingdom.' 

On  these  two  sentences,  I  have  nothing  of  moment  to  observe. 
The  sense  is  brought  out  clearly,  and  in  simple,  unaffected  language. 

'  This,  at  least,  is  the  opinion  generally  received;  but  your  Lord- 
ship hath  fully  convinced  me,  that  the  French  tongue  made  yet  a 
greater  progress  here  under  Harry  the  Second,  who  had  large  terri- 
tories on  that  continent  both  from  his  father  and  his  wife;  made 
frequent  journeys  and  expeditions  thither;  and  was  always  attended 
with  a  number  of  his  countrymen,  retainers  at  court.' 

In  the  beginning  of  this  sentence,  our  author  states  an  opposition 
between  an  opinion  generally  received,  and  that  of  his  Lordship ; 
and  in  compliment  to  his  patron,  he  tells  us,  that  his  Lordship  had 
convinced  him  of  somewhat  that  differed  from  the  general  opinion. 
Thus  one  must  naturally  understand  his  words  :  This,  at  least,  is  the 
opinion  generally  received ;  but  your  Lordship  hath  fully  convinced 
me. — Now  here  there  must  be  an  inaccuracy  of  expression.  For  on 
examining  what  went  before,  there  appears  no  sort  of  opposition 
betwixt  the  generally  received  opinion,  and  that  of  the  author's  pa- 
tron. The  general  opinion  was,  that  William  the  Conqueror  had 
proceeded  much  farther  than  Edward  the  Confessor,  in  propagating 
the  French  language,  and  had  endeavoured  to  make  it  universal. 
Lord  Oxford's  opinion  was,  that  the  French  tongue  had  gone  on  to 
make  a  yet  greater  progress  under  Harry  the  Second,  than  it  had 
done  under  his  predecessor  William :  which  two  opinions  are'  as 
entirely  consistent  with  each  other,  as  any  can  be;  and  therefore 
the  opposition  here  affected  to  be  stated  between  them,  by  the  ad- 
versative particle  but,  was  improper  and  groundless. 

'  For  some  centuries  after,  there  was  a  constant  intercourse  be- 
tween France  and  England  by  the  dominions  we  possessed  there,  and 
the  conquests  we  made  ;  so  that  our  language,  between  two  and  three 
hundred  years  ago,  seems  to  have  had  a  greater  mixture  with  French 
than  at  present ;  many  words  having  been  afterwards  rejected,  and 
some  since  the  days  of  Spenser;  although  we  have  still  retained 
not  a  few,  which  have  been  long  antiquated  in  France.' 

33 


£58  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF       [lect.  xxiv 

This  is  a  sentence  too  long  and  intricate,  and  liable  to  the  sanif 
objection  that  was  made  to  a  former  one,  of  the  want  of  unity. 
It  consists  of  four  members,  each  divided  from  the  subsequent  by  a 
semicolon.  In  going  along,  we  naturally  expect  the  sentence  is  to 
end  at  the  second  of  these,  or  at  farthest,  at  the  third:  when, to  ooi 
surprise,  a  new  member  of  the  period  makes  its  appearance,  a. id  fa- 
tigues our  attention  in  joining  all  the  parts  together.  Such  a  structure 
of  a  sentence  is  always  the  mark  of  careless  writing.  Ln  the  first 
mem  ber  of  the  sentence,  a  constant  intercourse  between  France  and 
England,  by  the  dominions  we  possessed  there, and  the  conquests  we 
made,  the  construction  is  not  sufficiently  filled  up.  In  place  oiinter- 
course  by  the  dominions  wepossessed,  it  should  have  been — by  reason 
of  the  dominions  wepossessed — or — occasioned  by  the  dominions  we 
possessed-- and  in  place  of—Me  dominions  wepossessed  there,  and  the 
conquests  we  made,  the  regular  style  is— the  dominions  which  wepos- 
sessed there  and  the  conquests  which  we  made.  The  relative  pronoun 
ivhich,  is,  indeed,  in  phrases  of  this  kind,  sometimes  omitted.  But, 
when  it  is  omitted  the  style  becomes  elliptic;  and  though  in  conver- 
sation, or  in  the  very  light  and  easy  kinds  of  writing,  such  elliptic  style 
may  not  be  improper,  yet  in  grave  and  regular  writing,  it  is  better  to 
fill  up  the  construction,  and  insert  the  relative  pronoun.  After  hav- 
ing said,  J  could  produce  several  instances  of  bothkinds.  ifitwere  of 
any  use  or  entertai7ime?it,our3iUthor  begins  the  next  paragraph  thus: 

'  To  examine  into  the  several  circumstances  by  which  the  lan- 
guage of  a  country  may  be  altered,  would  force  me  to  enter  into  a 
wide  field.' 

There  is  nothing  remarkable  in  this  sentence,  unless  that  here  oc- 
curs the  first  instance  of  a  metaphor  since  the  beginning  of  this  trea- 
tise ;  entering  into  a  wide  field,  being  put  for  beginning  an  extensive 
subject.  Few  writers  deal  less  in  figurative  language  than  Swift.  I 
before  observed,  that  he  appears  to  despise  ornaments  of  this  kind  ; 
and  though  this  renders  his  style  somewhat  dry  on  serious  subjects, 
yet  his  plainness  and  simplicity,  I  must  not  forbear  to  remind  my 
readers,  is  far  preferable  to  an  ostentatious  and  affected  parade  of 
ornament. 

'I  shall  only  observe,  that  the  Latin,  the  French,  and  the  English, 
seem  to  have  undergone  the  same  fortune.  The  first  from  the  days 
of  Romulus  to  those  of  Julius  Caesar,  suffered  perpetual  changes ; 
and  by  what  we  meet  in  those  authors  who  occasionally  speak  on 
that  subject,  as  well  as  from  certain  fragments  of  old  laws,  it  is  mani- 
fest that  the  Latin,  three  hundred  years  before  Tully,  was  as  un- 
intelligible in  his  time,  as  the  French  and  English  of  the  same  pe- 
riod are  now ;  and  these  two  have  changed  as  much  since  William 
the  Conqueror  (which  is  but  little  less  than  700  years)  as  the  Latin 
appears  to  have  done  in  the  like  term.' 

The  Dean  plainly  appears  to  be  writing  negligently  here.  This 
sentence  is  one  of  that  involved  and  intricate  kind,  of  which  some 
instances  have  occurred  before;  but  none  worse  than  this.  It  re- 
quires a  very  distinct  head  to  comprehend  the  whole  meaning  of  the 
period  at  first  reading.     In  one  part  of  it  we  find  extreme  careless- 


lect.  xxiv.J         DEAN  SWIFT'S  STYLE.  259 

ness  of  expression.  He  says,  It  is  manifest  that  the  Latin,  300 
yeartbefore  Tally , was as  unintelligible  in  his  time,  as  the  English 
and  French  of  the  same  period  are  now.  By  the  English  and  French 
of  the  same  period  must  naturally  be  understood,  the  English  and 
French  that  ivere  spoken  three  hundred  years  before  Tully.  This  is 
the  only  grammatical  meaning  his  words  will  bear;  and  yet  assured- 
ly what  he  means,  and  what  it  would  have  been  easy  for  him  to 
have  expressed  with  more  precision,  is,  the  English  and  French  that 
were  spoken  300  years  ago;  or  at  a  period  equally  distant  from  our 
age  as  the  old  Latin,  which  he  had  mentioned,  was  from  the  age 
of  Tully.  But  when  an  author  writes  hastily,  and  does  not  review 
with  proper  care  what  he  has  written,  many  such  inaccuracies  will 
be  apt  to  creep  into  his  style. 

'  Whether  our  language  or  the  French  will  decline  as  fast  as  the 
Roman  did,  is  a  question  that  would  perhaps  admit  more  debate 
than  it  is  worth.  There  were  many  reasons  for  the  corruptions  of 
the  last;  as  the  change  of  their  government  to  a  tyranny,  which  ruined 
the  study  of  eloquence,  there  being  no  further  use  or  encouragement 
for  popular  orators :  their  giving  not  only  the  freedom  of  the  city, 
but  capacity  for  employments,  to  several  towns  in  Gaul,  Spain,  and 
Germany,  and  other  distant  parts,  as  far  as  Asia,  which  brought  a 
great  number  of  foreign  pretenders  to  Rome;  the  slavish  disposi- 
tion of  the  senate  and  people,  by  which  the  wit  and  eloquence 
of  the  age  where  wholly  turned  into  panegyric,  the  most  barren  of 
all  subjects;  the  great  corruption  of  manners,  and  introduction  of 
foreign  luxury,  with  foreign  terms  to  express  it,  with  several  others 
that  might  be  assigned;  not  to  mention  the  invasions  from  the  Goths 
and  Vandals,  which  are  too  obvious  to  insist  on.' 

In  the  enumeration  here  made  of  the  causes  contributing  towards 
the  corruption  of  the  Roman  language,  there  are  many  inaccura- 
cies— the  change  of  their  government  to  a  tyranny:  Of  whose  gov 
eminent?  He  had  indeed  been  speaking  of  the  Roman  language,  and 
therefore  we  guess  at  his  meaning;  but  his  style  is  ungrammatical; 
for  he  had  not  mentioned  the  Romans  themselves ;  and  therefore, 
when  he  says  their  government,  there  is  no  antecedent  in  the  sen- 
tence to  which  the  pronoun  their  can  refer  with  any  propriety. 
Giving  the  capacity  for  employments  to  several  towns  in  Gaul,  is  a 
questionable  expression.  Forthoughtownsaresometimesput  for  the 
people  who  inhabit  them,  yet  to  give  a  town  the  capacity  for  employ- 
ments, sounds  harsh  and  uncouth.  The  wit  and  eloquence  of  the  age 
wholly  turnedinto panegyric,  is  aphrase  which  does  not  well  express 
the  meaning.  Neither  wit  nor  eloquence  can  be  turned  into  pane- 
gyric; but  they  may  be  turned  towards  panegyric,  or,  employed  in 
panegyric,  which  was  the  sense  the  author  had  in  view. 

The  conclusion  of  the  enumeration  is  visibly  incorrect — The  great 
corruption  of  manners,  and  introduction  of  foreign  luxury  with 
foreign  terms  to  express  it,  with  several  others  that  might  be  assigned 
— He  means,  with  several  other  reasons.  The  word  reasons,  had  in- 
deed been  mentioned  before ;  but  as  it  stands,  at  the  distance  of  thir- 
teen lines  bacKward,  the  repetition  of  it  here  became  indispensable 


260  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF      [lect.  xxiv 

in  order  to  avoid  ambiguity.  Not  to  mention,  he  adds,  the  invasion* 
from  the  Goths  and  Vandals,  which  are  too  obvious  to  insist  on. 
One  would  imagine  him  to  mean,  that  the  invasions  from  the  Goths 
and  Vandals,  are  historical  facts  too  well  known  and  obvious  to  be 
insisted  on.  But  he  means  quite  a  different  thing,  though  he  has 
not  taken  the  proper  method  of  expressing  it,  through  his  haste, 
probably,  to  finish  the  paragraph ;  namely,  that  these  invasions  from 
the  Goths  and  V&nda.\s,iuere  causes  of the  corruption  of 'the  Roman 
language  too  obvious  to  be  insisted,  on. 

I  shall  not  pursue  this  criticism  any  farther.  I  have  been  obliged 
to  point  out  many  inaccuracies  in  the  passage  which  we  have  consi- 
dered. But,  in  order  that  my  observations  may  not  be  construed  as 
meant  to  depreciate  the  style  or  the  writings  of  Dean  Swift  below 
their  just  value,  there  are  two  remarks  which  I  judge  it  necessary  to 
make  before  concluding  this  lecture.  One  is,  that  it  were  unfair  to 
estimate  an  author's  style  on  the  whole,  by  some  passage  in  his  writ- 
ings, which  chances  to  be  composed  in  a  careless  manner.  This  is 
the  case  with  respect  to  this  treatise,  which  has  much  the  appear- 
ance of  a  hasty  production:  though,  as  I  before  observed,  it  was  by 
no  means  on  that  account  that  I  pitched  upon  it  for  the  subject  of  this 
exercise.  But  after  having  examined  it,  I  am  sensible  that  in  many 
other  of  his  writings,  the  Dean  is  more  accurate. 

My  other  observation,  which  is  equally  applicable  to  Dean  Swift  and 
Mr.  Addison,  is,  that  there  may  be  writers  much  freer  from  such  inas- 
curacies,as  I  havuhad  occasion  to  point  out  in  these  two,  whose  style,, 
however,  upon  the  whole,  may  not  have  half  their  merit.  Refine- 
ment in  language  has,  of  late  years,  begun  to  be  much  attended  to. 
In  several  modern  productions  of  very  small  value,  I  should  frnd  it 
difficult  to  point  out  many  errors  in  language.  The  words  might,  pro- 
bably, be  all  proper  words,  correctly  and  clearly  arranged ;  and  the 
turn  of  the  sentence  sonorous  and  musical;  whilst  yet  the  style,  upon 
the  whole,  might  deserve  no  praise.  The  fault  often  lies  in  what  may 
be  called  the  general  cast,  or  complexion  of  the  style;  which  a  per- 
son of  a  good  taste  discerns  to  be  vicious;  to  be  feeble,  for  instance, 
and  diffuse;  flimsy  or  affected;  petulant  or  ostentatious;  though  the 
faults  cannotbe  so  easily  pointed  out  and  particularized,  as  when  they 
lie  in  some  erroneous  or  negligent  construction  of  a  sentence. 
Whereas  such  writers  as  Addison  and  Swift,  carry  always  those  ge- 
neral characters  of  good  style,  which  in  the  midst  of  their  occasion- 
al negligences,  every  person  of  good  taste  mustdiscern  and  approve. 
We  see  their  faults  overbalanced  by  higher  beauties.  We  see  a  wri- 
ter of  sense  and  reflection  expressing  his  sentiments  without  affecta- 
tion, attentive  to  thoughts  as  well  as  to  words;  and,  in  the  main  cur- 
rent of  his  language,  elegant  and  beautiful ;  and,  therefore,  the  only- 
proper  use  to  be  made  of  the  blemishes  which  occur  in  the  writings 
of  such  authors,  is  to  point  out  to  those  who  apply  themselves  to  the 
study  of  composition,  some  of  the  rules  which  they  ought  to  observe 
for  avoiding  such  errors;  and  to  render  them  sensible  of  the  neces- 
sity of  strict  attention  to  language  and  to  style.  Let  them  imitate 
the  ease  and  simplicity  of  those  great  authors ;  let  them  studv  to  b» 


i.ect.  xxv.]  DEAN  SWIFT'S  STYLE  26/ 

always  natural,  and,  as  far  as  they  can,  always  correct  in  their  expres 
sions:  let  them  endeavour  to  be,at  some  times,  lively  and  strik 
ing;  but  carelully  avoid  being  at  any  time  ostentatious  and  af 
fected. 


LECTURE  XXV. 


ELOQUENCE,  OR  PUBLIC  SPEAKING HISTORY 

OF  ELOQUENCE GRECIAN  ELOQUENCE 

DEMOSTHENES. 

Having  finished  that  part  of  the  course  which  relates  to  language 
and  style,  we  are  now  to  ascend  a  step  higher,  and  to  examine  the 
subjects  upon  which  style  is  employed.  I  begin  with  what  is  proper- 
ly called  eloquence,  or  public  speaking.  In  treating  of  this,  I  am  to 
consider  the  different  kinds  and  subjects  of  public  speaking;  the 
manner  suited  to  each;  the  proper  distribution  and  management  o/ 
all  the  parts  of  a  discourse;  and  the  proper  pronunciation  or  delive 
ry  of  it.  But  before  I  enter  upon  any  of  these  heads,  it  may  be  pro 
per  to  take  a  view  of  the  nature  of  eloquence  in  general,  and  of  the 
state  in  which  it  has  subsisted  in  different  ages  and  countries.  This 
will  lead  into  some  detail;  but  I  hope  an  useful  one;  as  in  every  art 
it  is  of  great  consequence  to  have  a  just  idea  of  the  perfection  of 
that  art,  of  the  end  at  which  it  aims,  and,  of  the  progress  which  it  has 
made  among  mankind. 

Of  eloquence,  in  particular,  it  is  the  more  necessary  to  ascertain 
the  proper  notion,  because  there  is  not  any  thing  concerning  which 
false  notions  have  been  more  prevalent.  Hence,  it  has  been  so  often, 
and  is  still  at  this  day,  in  disrepute  with  many.  When  you  speak  to 
a  plain  man,  of  eloquence,  or  in  praise  of  it,  he  is  apt  to  hear  you  with 
very  little  attention.  He  conceives  eloquence  to  signify  a  certain 
trick  of  speech;  the  art  of  varnishing  weak  arguments  plausibly;  or 
of  speaking,  so  as  to  please  and  tickle  the  ear.  'Give  me  good 
sense,'  says  he, 'and  keep  your  eloquence  for  boys.'  He  is  in  the 
right,  if  eloquence  were  what  he  conceives  it  to  be.  It  would  be 
then  a  very  contemptible  art  indeed,  below  the  study  of  any  wise  or 
good  man.  But  nothing  can  be  more  remote  from  truth.  To  be 
truly  eloquent,  is  to  speak  to  the  purpose.  For  the  best  definition 
which,  I  think,  can  be  given  of  eloquence,  is  the  art  of  speaking  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  attain  the  end  for  which  we  speak.  Whenever 
a  man  speaks  or  writes,  he  is  supposed,  as  a  rational  being,  to  hav? 
some  end  in  view;  either  to  inform,  or  to  amuse,  or  to  persuade,  or , 
m  some  way  or  other,  to  act  upon  his  fellow-creatures.  He  who 
speaks  or  writes,  in  such  a  manner  as  to  adapt  all  his  words  most  effec- 
tually to  that  end,  is  the  most  eloquent  man.  Whatever  then  the  sub 
>ect  be,  there  is  room  for  eloquence;  in  history  or  even  in  philoso 
2P 


262  ELOQUENCE,  OR  [>ect.  xxt 

phy,  as  well  as  in  orations.  The  definition  which  I  have  given  of 
eloquence,  comprehends  all  the  different  kinds  of  it;  whether  calcu- 
lated to  instruct,  to  persuade,  or  to  please.  But,  as  the  most  impor- 
tantsubject  of  discourse  is  action,  or  conduct,  the  power  of  eloquence 
chiefly  appears  when  it  is  employed  to  influence  conduct,  and  per- 
suade to  action.  As  it  is  principally  with  reference  to  this  end,  that 
it  becomes  the  object  of  art,  eloquence  may,  under  this  view  of  it, 
be  defined,  the  art  of  persuasion. 

This  being  once  established,  certain  consequences  immediately 
follow,  which  point  out  the  fundamental  maxims  of  the  art.  It  fol- 
lows clearly,  that  in  order  to  persuade,  the  most  essential  requisites 
are,  solid  argument,  clear  method,  a  character  of  probity  appear- 
ing in  the  speaker,  joined  with  such  graces  of  style  and  utterance, 
as  shall  draw  our  attention  to  what  he  says.  Good  sense  is  the  foun- 
dation of  all.  No  man  can  be  truly  eloquent  without  it;  for  fools 
can  persuade  none  but  fools.  In  order  to  persuade  a  man  of  sense 
you  must  first  convince  him;  which  is  only  to  be  done,  by  satis- 
fying his  understanding  of  the  reasonableness  of  what  you  propose 
to  him. 

This  leads  me  to  observe,  that .  convincing  and  persuading, 
though  they  are  sometimes  confounded,  import,  notwithstanding, 
different  things,  which  it  is  necessary  for  us,  at  present,  to  distin- 
guish from  each  other.  Conviction  affects  the  understanding  only  ; 
persuasion,  the  will  and  the  practice.  It  is  the  business  of  the 
philosopher  to  convince  me  of  truth;  it  is  the  business  of  the  orator 
to  persuade  me  to  act  agreeably  to  it,  by  engaging  my  affections 
on  its  side.  Conviction  and  persuasion  do  not  always  go  together. 
They  ought,  indeed,  to  go  together;  and  would  do  so,  if  our  incli- 
nation regularly  followed  the  dictates  of  our  understanding.  But  as 
our  nature  is  constituted,  I  may  be  convinced,  that  virtue,  justice,  or 
public  spirit,  are  laudable,  while  at  the  same  time,  I  am  not  persuad- 
ed to  act  according  to  them.  The  inclination  may  revolt,  though 
the  understanding  be  satisfied  :  the  passions  may  prevail  against  the 
judgment.  Conviction  is,  however,  always  one  avenue  to  the  in- 
clination or  heart;  and  it  is  that  which  an  orator  must  first  bend  his 
strength  to  gain ;  for  no  persuasion  is  likely  to  be  stable,  which  is 
not  founded  on  conviction.  But,  in  order  to  persuade,  the  orator 
must  go  farther  than  merely  producing  conviction ;  he  must  consider 
man  as  a  creature  moved  by  many  different  springs,  and  must  act 
upon  them  all.  He  must  address  himself  to  the  passions  ;  he  must 
.  paint  to  the  fancy,  and  touch  the  heart ;  and,  hence,  besides  solid 
argument,  and  clear  method,  all  the  conciliating  and  interesting 
arts,  both  of  composition  and  pronunciation,  enter  into  the  idea  of 
eloquence. 

An  objection  may,  perhaps,  hence  be  formed  against  eloquence, 
as  an  art  which  may  be  employed  for  persuading  to  ill,  as  well  as 
to  good.  There  is  no  doubt  that  it  may ;  and  so  reasoning  may  also 
be,  and  too  often  is  employed  for  leading  men  into  error.  But  who 
would  think  of  forming  an  argument  from  this  against  the  cultiva- 
tion of  our  reasoning  powers?  reason,  eloquence,  and  every  art 


lect.  xxv.]  PUBLIC  SPEAKING.  263 

which  ever  has  been  studied  among  mankind,  may  be  abused,  and 
way  prove  dangerous  in  the  hands  of  bad  men ;  but  it  were  perfect- 
ly childish  to  contend,  that,  upon  this  account,  they  ought  to  be 
abolished.  Give  truth  and  virtue  the  same  arms  which  you  give 
vice  and  falsehood,  and  the  former  are  likely  to  prevail.  Eloquence 
is  no  invention  of  the  schools.  Nature  teaches  every  man  to  be 
eloquent,  when  he  is  much  in  earnest.  Place  him  in  some  critical 
situation ;  let  him  have  some  great  interest  at  stake,  and  you  will 
see  him  lay  hold  of  the  most  effectual  means  of  persuasion.  The 
art  of  oratory  proposes  nothing  more  than  to  follow  out  the  track 
which  nature  has  first  pointed  out.  And  the  more  exactly  that 
this  track  is  pursued,  the  more  that  eloquence  is  properly  studied, 
the  more  shall  we  be  guarded  against  the  abuse  which  bad  men 
make  of  it,  and  enabled  the  better  to  distinguish  between  true  elo- 
quence and  the  tricks  of  sophistry. 

We  may  distinguish  three  kinds,  or  degrees  of  eloquence.  The 
first,  and  lowest,  is  that  which  aims  only  at  pleasing  the  hearers. 
Such,  generally,  is  the  eloquence  of  panegyrics,  inaugural  orations, 
addresses  to  great  men,  and  other  harangues  of  this  sort.  This  or- 
namental sort  of  composition  is  not  altogether  to  be  rejected.  It 
may  innocently  amuse  and  entertain  the  mind :  and  it  may  be  mix- 
ed, at  the  same  time,  with  very  useful  sentiments.  But  it  must  be 
confessed,  that  where  the  speaker  has  no  farther  aim  than  merely 
to  shine  and  to  please,  there  is  great  danger  of  art  being  strained 
into  ostentation,  and  of  the  composition  being  tiresome  and  lan- 
guid. 

A  second  and  a  higher  degree  of  eloquence,  is,  when  the  speaker 
aims  not  merely  to  please,  but  also  to  inform,  to  instruct,  to  con 
vince  :  when  his  art  is  exerted,  in  removing  prejudices  against  him 
self  and  his  cause;  in  choosing  the  most  proper  arguments,  stating 
them  with  the  greatest  force,  arranging  them  in  the  best  order,  ex- 
pressing and  delivering  them  with  propriety  and  beauty ;  and  there- 
by disposing  us  to  pass  that  judgment,  or  embrace  that  side  of  the 
cause,  to  which  he  seeks  to  bring  us.  Within  this  compass,  chiefly, 
is  employed  the  eloquence  of  the  bar. 

But  there  is  a  third,  and  still  higher  degree  of  eloquence, 
wherein  a  greater  power  is  exerted  over  the  human  mind ;  by  which 
we  are  not  only  convinced,  but  are  interested,  agitated,  and  carried 
along  with  the  speaker  ;  our  passions  are  made  to  rise  together  with 
his ;  we  enter  into  all  his  emotions;  we  love,  we  detest,  we  resent, 
according  as  he  inspires  us,  and  are  prompted  to  resolve,  or  to  act, 
with  vigour  and  warmth.  Debate,  in  popular  assemblies,  opens  the 
most  illustrious  field  to  this  species  of  eloquence ;  and  the  pulpi 
also  admits  it. 

I  am  here  to  observe,  and  the  observation  is  of  consequence,  that 
the  high  eloquence  which  I  have  last  mentioned,  is  always  the  off- 
spring of  passion.  By  passion,  I  mean  that  state  of  the  mind  in 
which  it  is  agitated,  and  fired  by  some  object  it  has  in  view.  A  man 
may  convince,  and  even  persuade  others"  to  act, by  mere  reason  and 
argument.     But  that  degree  of  eloquence  which  gains  the  admira- 


264  ELOQUENCE,  OR  [lect.  xxv. 

tion  of  mankind,  and  properly  denominates  one  an  orator,  is  never 
found  without  warmth  or  passion.  Passion,  when  in  such  a  degree 
as  to  rouse  and  kindle  the  mind,  without  throwing  it  out  of  the  pos- 
session of  itself,  is  universally  found  to  exalt  all  the  human  powers. 
It  renders  the  mind  infinitely  more  enlightened,  more  penetrating, 
more  vigorous  and  masterly,  than  it  is  in  its  calm  moments.  A  man, 
actuated  by  a  strong  passion,  becomes  much  greater  than  he  is  at 
other  times.  He  is  conscious  of  more  strength  and  force ;  he  ut- 
ters greater  sentiments,  conceives  higher  designs,  and  executes  them 
with  a  boldness  and  a  felicity,  of  which,  on  other  occasions,  he  could 
not  think  himself  capable.  But  chiefly,  with  respect  to  persuasion, 
is  the  power  of  passion  felt.  Almost  every  man,  in  passion,  is  elo- 
quent. Then  he  is  at  no  loss  for  words  and  arguments.  He  trans- 
mits to  others,  by  a  sort  of  contagious  sympathy,  the  wrarm  senti- 
ments which  he  feels;  his  looks  and  gestures  are  all  persuasive; 
and  nature  here  shows  herself  infinitely  more  powerful  than  art. 
This  is  the  foundation  of  that  just  and  noted  rule :  '  Si  vis  me  flere, 
dolendum  est  primum  ipsi  tibi.' 

This  principle  being  once  admitted,  that  all  high  eloquence  flows 
from  passion,  several  consequences  follow,  which  deserve  to  be  at- 
tended to;  and  the  mention  of  which  will  serve  to  confirm  the  prin- 
ciple itself.  For  hence  the  universally  acknowledged  effect  of  en 
thusiasm,  or  warmth  of  any  kind,  in  public  speakers,  for  affecting 
their  audience.  Hence  all  laboured  declamation,  and  affected  or- 
naments of  style,  which  show  the  mind  to  be  cool  and  unmoved, 
are  so  inconsistent  with  persuasive  eloquence.  Hence  all  studied 
prettinesses,  in  gesture  or  pronunciation,  detract  so  greatly  from  the 
weight  of  a  speaker.  Hence  a  discourse  that  is  read,  moves  us  less 
than  one  that  is  spoken,  as  having  less  the  appearance  of  coining 
warm  from  the  heart.  Hence,  to  call  a  man  cold,  is  the  same  thing 
as  to  say,  that  he  is  not  eloquent.  Hence,  a  skeptical  man,  who  is 
always  in  suspense,  and  feels  nothing  strongly  ;  or  a  cunning  merce- 
nary man,  who  is  suspected  rather  to  assume  the  appearance  of  pas- 
sion than  to  feel  it;  have  so  little  power  over  men  in  public  speak- 
ing. Hence,  in  fine,  the  necessity  of  being,  and  being  believed  to 
be,  disinterested,  and  in  earnest,  in  order  to  persuade. 

Those  are  some  of  the  capital  ideas  which  have  occurred  to  me, 
concerning  eloquence  in  general ;  and  with  which  I  have  thought  pro- 
per to  begin,  as  the  foundation  of  much  of  what  I  am  afterwards  to 
suggest.  From  what  I  have  already  said,  it  is  evident  that  eloquence 
is  a  high  talent  and  of  great  importance  in  society:  and  that  it  re- 
quires both  natural  genius,  and  much  improvement  from  art.  View- 
ed as  the  art  of  persuasion,  it  requires,  in  its  lowest  state,  soundness 
of  understanding,  and  considerable  acquaintance  with  human  na- 
ture; and,  in  its  higher  degrees,  it  requires,  moreover,  strong  sensi- 
bility of  mind,  a  warm  and  lively  imagination,  joined  with  correctness 
of  judgment,  and  an  extensive  command  of  the  power  of  language  ; 
to  which  must  also  be  added,  the  graces  of  pronunciation  and  deli- 
very. Let  us  next  proceed,  to  consider  in  what  state  eloquence  rias 
subsisted  in  different  ages  and  nations 


lect.xxv.]  PUBLIC  SPEAKING.  265 

It  is  an  observation  made  by  several  writers,  that  eloquence  is  to 
be  looked  for  only  in  free  states.  Longinus,  in  particular,  at  the  end 
of  his  treatise  ori*the  sublime,  when  assigning  the  reason  why  so  lit- 
tle sublimity  of  genius  appeared  in  the  age  wherein  he  lived,  illus 
trates  this  observation  with  a  great  deal  of  beauty,  liberty,  he  re- 
marks, is  the  nurse  of  true  genius;  it  animates  the  spnit,  and  invigo 
rates  the  hopes  of  men ;  excites  honourable  emulation,  and  a  desire 
of  excelling  in  every  art.  All  other  qualifications,  he  say  r,  you  may 
find  among  those  who  are  deprived  of  liberty ;  but  never  did  a  slave 
become  an  orator;  he  can  only  be  a  pompous  flatterer.  Now, 
though  this  reasoning  be,  in  the  main,  true ;  it  must,  however,  be  un- 
derstood with  some  limitations.  For,  under  arbitrary  governments, 
if  they  be  of  the  civilized  kind,  and  give  encouragement  to  the  arts, 
ornamented  eloquence  may  flourish  remarkably.  Witness  France 
at  this  day,  where,  ever  since  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV.  more 
of  what  may  be  justly  called  eloquence,  within  a  certain  sphere,  is 
to  be  found,  than,  perhaps,  in  any  other  nation  in  Europe ;  though 
freedom  be  enjoyed  by  some  nations  in  a  much  greater  degree. 
The  French  sermons,  and  orations  pronounced  on  public  occasions, 
are  not  only  polite  and  elegant  harangues,  but  several  of  them  are  un- 
commonly spirited,  are  animated  with  bold  figures,  and  rise  to  a  degree 
of  the  sublime.  Their  eloquence,  however,  in  general,must  be  con- 
fessed to  be  of  the  flowery  rather  than  the  vigorous  kind;  calculated 
more  to  please  and  sooth,  than  to  convince  and  persuade.  High, 
manly,  and  forcible  eloquence,is,  indeed,  to  be  looked  for  only,  or 
chiefly,  in  the  regions  of  freedom.  Under  arbitrary  governments,  be- 
sides the  general  turn  of  softness  and  effeminacy  which  such  govern- 
ments may  be  justly  supposed  to  give  to  the  spirit  of  a  nation,  the  art 
of  speaking  cannot  be  such  an  instrument  of  ambition,  business,  and 
power,  as  it  is  in  democratic&l  states.  It  is  confined  within  a  nar- 
rower range;  it  can  be  employed  only  in  the  pulpit,  or  at  the  bar;  but 
is  excluded  from  those  great  scenes  of  public  business,  where  the  spi- 
rits of  men  have  the  freest  exertion ;  where  important  affairs  are  trans- 
acted, and  persuasion,  of  course^  is  more  seriously  studied.  Wher- 
ever man  can  acquire  most  power  over  man  by  means  of  reason  and 
discourse,  which  certainly  is  under  a  free  state  of  government,  there 
we  may  naturally  expect  that  true  eloquence  will  be  best  understood, 
and  carried  to  the  greatest  height. 

Hence,  in  tracing  the  rise  of  oratory,  we  need  not  attempt  to  go 
far  back  into  the  early  ages  of  the  world,  or  search  for  it  among  the 
monuments  of  eastern  or  Egyptian  antiqtfity.  In  those  ages,  there 
was,  indeed,  an  eloquence  of  a  certain  kind ;  but  it  approached  near- 
er to  poetry  than  to  what  we  properly  call  oratory.  There  is  reason 
to  believe,  as  I  formerly  showed,  that  the  language  of  the  first  ages 
was  passionate  and  metaphorical ;  owing  partly  to  the  scanty  stock 
of  words,  of  which  speech  then  consisted;  and  partly  to  the  tincture 
which  language  naturally  takes  from  the  savage  and  uncultivated  state 
of  men,  agitated  by  unrestrained  passions,  and  struck  by  events  which 
to  them  are  strange  and  surprising.     In  this  state,  rapture  and  enthu- 

34 


266  GRECIAN  ELOQUENCE.  [lect  xxv 

siasm.  the  parents  of  poetry,  had  an  ample  field.  But  wlule  the  in- 
tercourse of  men  was  as  yet  unfrequent,  and  force  and  strength  were 
the  chief  means  employed  in  deciding  controversres,  the  arts  of  ora- 
tory and  persuasion,  of  reasoning  and  debate,  could  be  but  little 
known.  The  first  empires  that  arose,  the  Assyrian  and  Egyptian, 
were  of  the  despotic  kind.  The  whole  power  was  in  the  hands  of 
one,  or  at  most  of  a  few.  The  multitude  were  accustomed  to  a  blind 
reverence;  they  were  led,  not  persuaded;  and  none  of  those  re- 
finements of  society,  which  make  public  speaking  an  object  of  im- 
portance, were  as  yet  introduced. 

It  is  not  till  the  rise  of  the  Grecian  republics,  that  we  find  any  re- 
markable appearances  of  eloquence  as  the  art  of  persuasion  ;  and 
these  gave  it  such  a  field  as  it  never  had  before,  and,  perhaps 
has  never  had  again  since  that  time.  And,  therefore,  as  the  Gre- 
cian eloquence  has  ever  been  the  object  of  admiration  to  those  who 
have  studied  the  powers  of  speech,  it  is  necessary  that  we  fix  our 
attention,  for  a  little,  on  this  period. 

Greece  was  divided  into  a  multitude  of  petty  states.  These  were 
governed,  at  first,  by  kings  who  were  called  tyrants,  on  whose  ex- 
pulsion from  all  these  states,  there  sprung  up  a  great  number  of  demo- 
cratical  governments,  founded  nearly  on  the  same  plan,  animated  by 
the  same  high  spirit  of  freedom,  mutually  jealous,  and  rivals  of  one  an- 
other. We  may  compute  the  flourishing  period  of  those  Grecian 
3tates  to  have  lasted  from  the  battle  of  Marathon,  till  the  time  of  Alex- 
ander the  Great,  who  subdued  the  liberties  of  Greece ;  a  period  which 
comprehends  about  150  years,  and  within  which  are  to  be  found 
most  of  their  celebrated  poets  and  philosophers,  but  chiefly  their 
orators:  for  though  poetry  and  philosophy  were  not  extinct  among 
them  after  that  period,  yet  eloquence  hardly  made  any  figure. 

Of  these  Grecian  republics,  the  most  noted,  by  far,  for  eloquence, 
and,  indeed,  for  arts  of  every  kind,  was  that  of  Athens.  The  Athenians 
were  an  ingenious,  quick,  sprightly  people;  practised  in  business, 
and  sharpened  by  frequent  and  sudden  revolutions,  which  happen- 
ed in  their  government.  The  geniusof  their  government  was  alto- 
gether democratical ;  their  legislature  consisted  of  the  whole  body  of 
the  people.  They  had,  indeed,  a  senate  of  five  hundred;  but  in 
the  general  convention  of  the  citizens  was  placed  the  last  resort ; 
and  affairs  were  conducted  there,  entirely,  by  reasoning,  speaking, 
and  a  skilful  application  to  the  passions  and  interests  of  a  popular 
assembly.  There,  laws  were  made,  peace  and  war  decreed,  and 
thence  the  magistrates  were  chosen.  For  the  highest  honours  ot 
the  state  were  alike  open  to  all ;  nor  was  the  meanest  tradesman 
excluded  from  a  seat  in  their  supreme  courts.  In  such  a  state, 
eloquence,  it  is  obvious,  would  be  much  studied,  as  the  surest 
means  of  rising  to  influence  and  power;  and  what  sort  of  eloquence? 
Not  that  which  was  brilliant  merely,  and  showy;  but  that  which  was 
found,  upon  trial,  to  be  most  effectual  for  convincing,  interesting, 
and  persuading  the  hearers.  For  there,  public  speaking  was  not 
a  mere  competition  for  empty  applause,  but  a  serious  contention 


lect.  xxv.]  GRECIAN  ELOQUENCE.  367 

for  that  public  leading  which  was  the  great  object  both  of  the  men 
of  ambition,  and  the  men  of  virtue. 

In  so  enlightened  and  acute  a  nation,  where  the  highest  attention 
was  paid  to  every  thing  elegant  in  the  arts,  we  may  naturally  expect 
to  find  the  public  taste  refined  and  judicious.  Accordingly,  it  was 
improved  to  such  a  degree,  that  the  Attic  taste  and  Attic  manner 
have  passed  into  a  proverb.  It  is  true,  that  ambitious  demagogues, 
and  corrupt  orators,  did  sometimes  dazzle  and  mislead  the  people, 
by  a  showy  but  false  eloquence :  for  the  Athenians,  with  all  their 
acuteness,  were  factious  and  giddy,  and  great  admirers  of  every  no- 
velty. But  when  some  important  interest  drew  the"?  attention, 
when  any  great  danger  roused  them,  and  put  their  judgment  to 
a  serious  trial,  they  commonly  distinguished  very  justly  between 
genuine  and  spurious  eloquence;  and  hence  Demosthenes  triumphed 
over  all  his  opponents ;  because  he  spoke  always  to  the  purpose, 
affected  no  insignificant  parade  of  words,  used  weighty  arguments, 
and  showed  them  clearly  where  their  interest  lay.  In  critical  con- 
junctures of  the  state,  when  the  public  was  alarmed  with  some 
pressing  danger,  when  the  people  were  assembled,  and  procla- 
mation was  made  by  the  crier,  for  any  one  to  rise  and  deliver  his 
opinion  upon  the  present  situation  of  affairs,  empty  declamation 
and  sophistical  reasoning  would  not  only  have  been  hissed,  but  re- 
sented and  punished  by  an  assembly  so  intelligent  and  accustomed 
to  business.  Their  greatest  orators  trembled  on  such  occasions, 
when  they  rose  to  address  the  people,  as  they  knew  they  were  to  be 
held  answerable  for  the  issue  of  the  counsel  which  they  gave.  The 
most  liberal  endowments  of  the  greatest  princes  never  could  found 
such  a  school  for  true  oratory,  as  was  formed  by  the  nature  of  the 
Athenian  republic.  Eloquence  there  sprung,  native  and  vigorous, 
from  amidst  the  contentions  of  faction  and  freedom,  of  public  busi- 
ness, and  of  active  life ;  and  not  from  that  retirement  and  specula- 
tion, which  we  are  apt  sometimes  to  fancy  more  favourable  to  elo- 
quence than  they  are  found  to  be. 

Pisistratus,  who  was  contemporary  with  Solon,  and  subverted 
his  plan  of  government,  is  mentioned  by  Plutarch,  as  the  first  who 
distinguished  himself  among  the  Athenians  by  application  to  the 
arts  of  speech.  His  ability  in  these  arts  he  employed  for 
raising  himself  to  the  sovereign  power;  which,  however,  when 
he  had  attained  it,,  he  exercised  with  moderation.  Of  the  ora- 
tors who  flourished  between  his  time  and  the  Peloponnesian  war, 
no  particular  mention  is  made  in  history.  Pericles,  who  died 
about  the  beginning  of  that  war,  was  properly  the  first  who  carried 
eloquence  to  a  great  height;  to  such  a  height,  indeed,  that  it  does 
not  appear  he  was  ever  afterwards  surpassed.  He  was  more  than  an 
orator;  he  was  also  a  statesman  and  a  general;  expert  in  business, 
and  of  consummate  address.  Forty  years  he  governed  Athens 
with  absolute  sway ;  and  historians  ascribe  his  influence,  not  more 
to  his  political  talents  than  to  his  eloquence,  which  was  of  that 
forcible  and  vehement  kind,  that  bore  every  thing  before  it,  and 
triumphed  over  the  passions  and  affections  of  the  people.     Henee 


268  GRECIAN  ELOQUENCE.  [lect.  xxt 

he  had  the  surname  of  Olympias  given  him;  and  it  was  said,  that, 
like  Jupiter,  he  thundered  when  he  spoke.  Though  his  ambition  be 
liable  to  censure,  yet  he  was  distinguished  for  several  virtues,  and  it 
was  the  confidence  which  the  people  reposed  in  his  integrity,  that 
gave  such  power  to  his  eloquence.  He  appears  to  have  been  gene- 
»ous,  magnanimous, and  public  spirited  ;  he  raised  no  fortune  to  him- 
self; he  expended  indeed  greatsums  of  the  public  money,  but  chiefly 
on  public  works;  and  at  his  death  is  said  to  have  valued  himseli 
piincipally  on  having  never  obliged  any  citizen  to  wear  mourning 
on  his  account,  during  his  long  administration.  It  is  a  remarkable 
particular  recorded  of  Pericles  by  Suidas,  that  he  was  the  first 
Athenian  who  composed,  and  put  into  writing,  a  discourse  designed 
for  the  public. 

Posterior  to  Pericles,  in  the  cojrse  of  the  Peloponnesian  war, 
arose  Cleon,  Alcibiades,  Critias,  and  Theramenes,  eminent  citi- 
zens of  Athens,  who  were  all  distinguished  for  their  eloquence. 
They  were  not  orators  by  profession ;  they  were  not  formed  by 
schools,  but  by  a  much  more  powerful  education,  that  of  business 
and  debate  ;  where  man  sharpened  man,  and  civil  affairs  carried  on 
by  public  speaking  brought  every  power  of  the  mind  into  action.  The 
manner  or  style  of  oratory  which  then  prevailed,  we  learn  from  the 
orations  in  the  history  of  Thucydides,  who  also  flourished  in  the 
same  age.  It  was  manly,  vehement,  and  concise,  even  to  some  de- 
gree of  obscurity.  'Grandes  erant  verbis,'  says  Cicero,  '  crebri 
sententiis,  compressione  rerum  breves,  et,  ob  earn  ipsam  causam, 
interdum  subobscuri.  '*  A  manner  very  different  from  what,  in  mo- 
dern times,  we  would  conceive  to  be  the  style  of  popular  oratory ; 
and  which  tends  to  give  a  high  idea  of  the  acuteness  of  those  audi- 
ences to  which  they  spoke. 

The  power  of  eloquence  having,  after  the  days  of  Pericles, 
become  an  object  of  greater  consequence  than  ever,  this  gave 
birth  to  a  set  of  men  till  then  unknown,  called  rhetoricians,  and 
sometimes  sophists,  who  arose  in  multitudes  during  the  Peloponne- 
sian war;  such  as  Protagoras,  Prodicas,  Thrasymus,  and  one  who 
was  more  eminent  than  all  the  rest,  Gorgias  of  Leontium.  These 
sophists  joined  to  their  art  of  rhetoric  a  subtile  logic,  and  were 
generally  a  sort  of  metaphysical  skeptics.  Gorgias,  however, 
was  a  professed  master  of  eloquence  only.  His  reputation  was 
prodigious.  He  was  highly  venerated  in  Leontium  of  Sicily, 
his  native  city ;  and  money  was  coined  with  his  name  upon  it.  In 
the  latter  part  of  his  Jife,  he  established  himself  at  Athens,  and 
lived  till  he  had  attained  the  age  of  105  years.  Hermogenes  (de 
Ideis,  1.  ii.  cap.  9.)  has  preserved  a  fragment  of  his,  from  which 
we  see  his  style  and  manner.  It  is  extremely  quaint  and  artificial : 
full  of  antithesis  and  pointed  expression ;  and  shows  how  far  the  Gre- 


* '  They  were  magnificent  in  their  expressions  ;  they  abounded  in  thought ;  they 
'cmpressed  their  matter  into  few  words,  and  by  their  brevity,  were  sometimes  obscure 


lect.xxv.]  GRECIAN  ELOQUENCE. 

cian  subtility  had  already  carried  the  study  of  language.  These 
rhetoricians  did  not  content  themselves  with  delivering  general  in- 
structions concerning  eloquence  to  their  pupils,  and  endeavouring 
to  form  their  taste  ;  but  they  professed  the  art  of  giving  thern  receipts 
for  making  all  sorts  of  orations;  and  of  teaching  them  how  to  speak 
for,  and  against,  every  cause  whatever.  Upon  this  plan,  they 
were  the  first  who  treated  of  common  places,  and  the  artificial  in- 
vention of  arguments  and  topics  for  every  subject.  In  the  hands  of 
such  men,  we  may  easily  believe  that  oratory  would  degenerate 
from  the  masculine  strain  it  had  hitherto  held,  and  become  a  tri- 
fling and  sophistical  art ;  and  we  may  justly  deem  them  the  first  cor- 
rupters of  true  eloquence.  To  them,  the  great  Socrates  opposed 
himself.  By  a  profound,  but  simple  reasoning  peculiar  to  himself, 
he  exploded  their  sophistry  ;  and  endeavoured  to  recall  men's  atten- 
tion from  that  abuse  of  reasoning  and  discourse  which  began  to  be  in 
vogue,  to  natural  language,  and  sound  and  useful  thought. 

In  the  same  age,  though  somewhat  later  than  the  philosopher 
above  mentioned,  flourished  Isocrates,  whose  writings  are  still  ex- 
tant. He  was  a  professed  rhetorician,  and  by  teaching  eloquence, 
he  acquired  both  a  great  fortune,  and  higher  fame  than  any  of  his 
rivals  in  that  profession.  No  contemptible  orator  was  he.  His 
orations  are  full  of  morality  and  good  sentiments  ;  they  are  flowing 
and  smooth ;  but  too  destitute  of  vigour.  He  never  engaged  in 
public  affairs,  nor  pleaded  causes;  and  accordingly  his  orations  are 
calculated  only  for  the  shade:  f  Pompas,'  Cicero  allows,  'magis 
quam  pugnae  aptior;  ad  voluptatem  aurium  accommodatus  potius 
quamad  judiciorum  certamen.'*  The  style  of  Gorgias  of  Leontium 
was  formed  into  short  sentences,  composed  generally  of  two  mem- 
bers balanced  against  each  other.  The  style  of  Isocrates,  on  the 
contrary,  is  swelling  and  full;  and  he  is  said  to  be  the  first  who  in- 
troduced the  method  of  composing  in  regular  periods,  which  had  a 
studied  music  and  harmonious  cadence;  a  manner  which  he  has 
carried  to  a  vicious  excess.  What  shall  we  think  of  an  orator,  who 
employed  ten  years  in  composing  one  discourse,  still  extant,  entitled 
the  Paneg)Tric?  How  much  frivolous  care  must  have  been  bestow- 
ed on  all  the  minute  elegance  of  words  and  sentences?  Dionysius 
of  Halicarnassus  has  given  us  upon  the  orations  of  Isocrates,  as  also 
upon  those  of  some  other  Greek  orators,  a  full  and  regular  treatise, 
which  is,  in  my  opinion,  one  of  the  most  judicious  pieces  of  ancient 
criticism  extant,  and  very  worthy  of  being  consulted.  He  commends 
the  splendour  of  Isocrates's  style,  and  the  morality  of  his  sentiments; 
but  severely  censures  his  affectation,  and  the  uniform  regular  ca 
dence  of  all  his  sentences.  He  holds  him  to  be  a  florid  declaimer; 
not  a  natural  persuasive  speaker.  Cicero,  in  his  critical  works, 
though  he  admits  his  failings,  yet  discovers  a  propensity  to  be  very 
favourable  to  that  *  plena  ac  numerosa  oratio,'  that  swelling  and 
musical  style  which  Isocrates  introduced,  and  with  the  love  of  which, 
Cieero  himself  was  perhaps  somewhat  infected.     In  one  of  his  trea- 

*  '  More  fitted  for  show  than  for  debate  ;  better  calculated  for  the  amusement  of  an 
fodif.nce,  than  for  judicial  contests.' 

2  a 


270  GRECIAN  ELOQUENCE.  [lect.  xxv 

tises  (Orat.  ad.  M.  Brut.)  he  informs  us,  that  his  friend  Brutus  and 
he  differed  in  this  particular,  and  that  Brutus  found  fault  with  his 
partiality  to  Isocrates.  The  manner  of  Isocrates  generally  catches 
young  people,  when  they  begin  to  attend  to  composition;  and  it 
is  very  natural  that  it  should  do  so.  It  gives  them  an  idea  of  that 
regularity,  cadence,and  magnificence  of  style,  which  fills  the  ear: 
but  when  they  come  to  write  or  speak  for  the  world,  they  will  find 
this  ostentatious  manner  unfit,  either  for  carrying  on  business,  or 
commanding  attention.  It  is  said,  that  the  high  reputation  of  Iso- 
crates, prompted  Aristotle,  who  was  nearly  his  contemporary,  or  liv- 
ed but  a  little  after  him,  to  write  his  institutions  of  rhetoric;  which 
are  indeed  formed  upon  a  plan  of  eloquence  very  different  from 
that  of  Isocrates,  and  the  rhetoricians  of  that  time.  He  seems  to 
have  had  it  in  view  to  direct  the  attention  of  orators  much  more 
towards  convincing  and  affecting  their  hearers,  than  towards  the 
musical  cadence  of  periods. 

Isseus  and  Lysias,  some  of  whose  orations  are  preserved,  belong  al- 
so to  this  period.  Lysias  was  somewhat  earlier  than  Isocrates,  and 
is  the  model  of  that  manner  which  the  ancients  call  the  'Tenuis  vel 
Subtilis.'  He  has  none  of  Isocrates's  pomp.  He  is  every  where 
pure  and  attic  in  the  highest  degree;  simple  and  unaffected;  but 
wants  force,  and  is  sometimes  frigid  in  his  compositions.*  Isaeus 
is  chiefly  remarkable  for  being  the  master  of  the  great  Demosthenes, 

*  In  the  judicious  comparison,  which  Dio^vsius  of  Halicarnassus  makes  of  the 
merits  of  Lysias  and  Isocrates,  he  ascribes  to  Lysias,  as  the  distinguishing  charac- 
fer  of  his  manner,  a  certain  grace  or  elegance  arising  from  simplicity:  "Tlf?ox.i 
yap  ri  Awn  m|/c  e^i/v  to  Xotg/ev  h  <T  T<roxg*T!sc  /2sait<*/.''  "The  style  of  Lysias  has 
gracefulness  for  its  nature :  that  of  Isocrates  seeks  to  have  it."  In  the  art  of  nar- 
ration, as  distinct,  probable,  and  persuasive,  he  holds  Lysias  to  be  superior  to 
all  orators ;  at  the  same  time,  he  admits  that  his  composition  is  more  adapted  to 
private  litigation  than  to  great  subjects.  He  convinces,  but  he  does  not  elevate 
nor  animate.  The  magnificence  and  splendour  of  Isocrates  is  more  suited  to  great 
occasions.  lie  is  more  agreeable  than  Lysias  ;  and  in  dignity  of  sentiment,  far 
excels  him.  With  regard  to  the  affectation  which  is  visible  in  Isocrates's  man 
ner,  !:e  coucIuq-'s  what  he  says  of  it  with  the  following  excellent  observations, 
which  should  ncvsr  be  forgotten  by  any  who  aspire  to  be  true  orators.  «*  TS< 
KWTO/  ciy&yns  to»  orflMI&V  t«  ei/fc*/ov,  xa/  t«v  <r%»/ux,Ti3-/ut*v  t»c  >,c{-sct>;  to  [*itgt*Kiu>S,K> 
*«.  ifox-lfxttov  SxXVJtl  >*g  »  tlt-itta.  tfO\KAx.l(  Toe  pvfifAm  thc  Xs^socc,  km  t«  koiu-^x  Kwnmeu 
<r*  xxnQtfov.  jt§*Tiro»  T  «w.t>iJV/|U4  «v  »:dtKtKTa>  nroKntx.» .  »</  iyiyuvsai .  to  OfAotorxrov  ra 
K*TJt  yvrw,  (ixxtTtio  ef»  it  <purts  tok  i-th-<.*7lv  nrtrflzt  t»v  *t%iv,  x  th  hi^ti  t*  fon/uara- 
ru/yt.Cts>.&  /»  in  <art?i  ttoKtux  x.tt  tignns  Af}ov7t  x.m  tS~ia)T*  tsv  «t»oj  4"X"c  TgfjfcefTl  K/fJuvon  e» 
/V**r*/c,  t*ko/u4*,  **'  fliargMst,  k&s  x*si£*  i'i/shmi/ti  ix.  odfx  riTivm.S'vrxiTxr  "srtpaT^ui 
ccqiXU&v  (UaAXcv  <T  oliT*  STJ  **/  |£\ot/S»c  *r  ai.T<r  ytvoiTO.  £sg<£VT/5-,uoc  y*%  <&x;  tv  *vnri«f», 
*su  Kxxcei  ytvofjitvoc,  aatgov  t^gayixx  khi  *ec\?u*:r*.  tov  ixta."  .Tudic.  de  Isocrate.  p.  558. 
'His  studied  circumflection  of  periods,  and  j  W.nile  affectation  of  the  flowers  of 
speech  I  do  not  approve.  The  thought  is  f;^q^e..tly  made  subservient  to  the  mu- 
sic of  the  sentence;  and  elegance  is  preferred  to  i  'ason.  Whereas,  in  every  dis- 
course wher^  business  and  affairs  are  concerned,  nt<u.  *  ought  to  be  followed,  and 
nature  certainly  dictates  that  the  expression  should  bt  *e  object  subordinate  to 
the  sense,  not  the  sense  to  the  expression.  When  oBO  r>e*  tc  give  p  lblic  counsel 
concerning  war  and  peace,  or  takes  the  charge  of  a  puvac?  .  >aa,  who  is  standing 
at  the  bar  to  be  tried  for  his  life,  those  studied  decorations,  v>Os\s  theatrical  graces 
and  juvenile  flowers,are  out  of  place.  Instead  of  being  of  service,  the/  ar?  detrimental 
o  the  cause  we  espouse.  When  the  contest  is  of  a  serious  kind,  ornamenw  vhich  at  an- 
ther time  would  have  beauty,  then  lose  their  effect,  and  prove  hostile  to  dw  affections 
nich  we  wish  to  raise  in  our  Hearers.' 


lect.  xxv.]  GRECIAN  ELOQUENCE.  871 

in  whom,  it  must  be  acknowledged,  eloquence  shone  forth  with 
higher  splendour,  than  perhaps  in  any  that  ever  bore  the  name  of  an 
orator,  and  whose  manner  and  character,  therefore,  must  deserve 
our  particular  attention. 

I  shall  not  spend  any  time  upon  the  circumstances  of  Demos- 
thenes's  life;  they  are  well  known.  The  strong  ambition  which  he 
discovered  to  excel  in  the  art  of  speaking;  the  unsuccessfulness  of 
his  first  attempts ;  his  unwearied  perseverance  in  surmounting  all  the 
disadvantages  that  arose  from  his  person  and  address;  his  shutting 
himself  up  in  a  cave,  that  he  might  study  with  less  distraction;  his 
declaiming  by  the  sea  shore,  that  he  might  accustom  himself  to  the 
noise  of  a  tumultuous  assembly,  and  with  pebbles  in  his  mouth,  that 
he  might  correct  a  defect  in  his  speech  ;  his  practising  at  home 
with  a  naked  sword  hanging  over  his  shoulder,  that  he  might  check 
an  ungraceful  motion,  to  which  he  was  subject;  all  those  circum- 
stances, which  we  learn  from  Plutarch,  are  very  encouraging  to 
such  as  study  eloquence,  as  they  show  how  far  art  and  application 
may  avail,  for  acquiring  an  excellence  which  nature  seemed  unwil- 
ling to  grant  us. 

Despising  the  affected  and  florid  manner  which  the  rhetoricians 
of  that  age  followed,  Demosthenes  returned  to  the  forcible  and 
manly  eloquence  of  Pericles;  and  strength  and  vehemence  form  the 
principal  characteristics  of  his  style.  Never  had  an  orator  a  finer 
field  than  Demosthenes  in  his  Olynthiacs  and  Philippics,  which  are 
his  capital  orations;  and,  no  doubt,  to  the  nobleness  of  the  subject, 
and  to  that  integrity  and  public  spirit  which  eminently  breathe  in 
them,  they  are  indebted  for  much  of  their  merit.  The  subject  is  to 
rouse  the  indignation  of  his  countrymen  against  Philip  of  Macedon, 
the  public  enemy  of  the  liberties  of  Greece;  and  to  guard  them 
against  the  insidious  measures,  by  which  that  crafty  prince  endea- 
voured to  lay  them  asleep  to  danger.  In  the  prosecution  of  this 
end,  we  see  him  taking  every  proper  method  to  animate  a  people, 
renowned  for  justice,  humanity,  and  valour,  but  in  many  instances 
become  corrupt  and  degenerate.  He  boldly  taxes  them  with  their 
venality,  their  indolence,  and  indifference  to  the  public  cause;  while 
at  the  same  time,  with  all  the  art  of  an  orator,  he  recalls  the  glory 
of  their  ancestors  to  their  thoughts,  shows  them  that  they  are  still  a 
flourishing  and  a  powerful  people,  the  natural  protectors  of  the  liber- 
ty of  Greece,  and  who  wanted  only  the  inclination  to  exert  them 
selves,  in  order  to  make  Philip  tremble.  With  his  contemporary 
orators,  who  were  in  Philip's  interest,  and  who  persuaded  the  peo- 
ple to  peace,  he  keeps  no  measures,  but  plainly  reproaches  them  as 
the  betrayers  of  their  country.  He  not  only  prompts  to  vigorous 
conduct,  but  he  lays  down  the  plan  of  that  conduct:  he  enters  into 
particulars ;  and  points  out,  with  great  exactness,  the  measures  of 
execution.  This  is  the  strain  of  these  orations.  They  are  strongly 
animated,  and  full  of  the  impetuosity  and  fire  of  public  spirit.  They 
proceed  in  a  continued  train  of  inductions,  consequences,  and  de- 
monstrations, founded  on  sound  reason.  The  figures  which  he  uses, 
are  never  sought  after ;  but  always  rise  from  the  subject      He  em 


272  DEMOSTHENES.  [lect.  xxv 

ploys  them  sparingly  indeed  ;  for  splendour  and  ornament  are  not 
the  distinctions  of  this  orator's  composition.  It  is  an  energy  of 
thought  peculiar  to  himself,  which  forms  his  character,  and  sets  him 
ahove  all  others.  He  appears  to  attend  much  more  to  things  than 
to  words.  We  forget  the  orator,  and  think  of  the  business.  He 
warms  the  mind,  and  impels  to  action.  He  has  no  parade  and  os- 
tentation; no  methods  of  insinuation;  no  laboured  introductions; 
but  is  like  a  man  full  of  his  subject,  who,  after  preparing  his  audi- 
ence by  a  sentence  or  two  for  hearing  plain  truths,  enters  directly  on 
business. 

Demosthenes  appears  to  great  advantage,  when  contrasted  with 
^Eschines  in  the  celebrated  oration  '  pro  Corona.'  iEsehines  was 
his  rival  in  business,  and  personal  enemy;  and  one  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished orators  of  that  age.  But  when  we  read  the  two  orations, 
^Eschines  is  feeble  in  comparison  of  Demosthenes,  and  makes  much 
less  impression  on  the  mind.  His  reasonings  concerning  the  law 
that  was  in  question,  are  indeed  very  subtile ;  but  his  invective  against 
Demosthenes  is  general  and  ill  supported.  Whereas,  Demosthenes 
is  a  torrent,  that  nothing  can  resist.  He  bears  down  his  antagonist 
with  violence;  he  draws  his  character  in  the  strongest  colours;  and 
the  particular  merit  of  that  oration  is,  that  all  the  descriptions  in  it 
are  highly  picturesque.  There  runs  through  it  a  strain  of  magnani- 
mity and  high  honour;  the  orator  speaks  with  that  strength  and  con- 
scious dignity  which  great  actions  and  public  spirit  alone  inspire. 
Both  orators  use  great  liberties  with  one  another ;  and,  in  general, 
I  hat  unrestrained  license  which  ancient  manners  permitted,  and  which 
was  carried  by  public  speakers  even  to  the  length  of  abusive  names  and 
downright  scurrility,  as  appears  both  here  and  in  Cicero's  Philippics 
hurts  and  offends  a  modern  ear.  What  those  ancient  orators  gained  by 
such  a  manner  in  point  of  freedom  and  boldness,  is  more  than  com- 
pensated by  want  of  dignity ;  which  seems  to  give  an  advantage,  in 
this  respect,  to  the  greater  decency  of  modern  speaking. 

The  style  of  Demosthenes  is  strong  and  concise,  though  some- 
times, it  must  not  be  dissembled,  harsh  and  abrupt.  His  words  are 
very  expressive;  his  arrangement  is  firm  and  manly:  and  though  far 
from  being  unmusical,  yet  it  seems  difficult  to  find  in  him  that  studi- 
ed, but  concealed  number,  and  rythmus,  which  some  of  the  ancient 
critics  are  fond  of  attributing  to  him.  Negligent  of  these  lesser 
graces,  one  would  rather  conceive  him  to  have  aimed  at  that  sublime 
which  lies  in  sentiment.  His  action  and  pronunciation  are  recorded 
to  have  been  uncommonly  vehement  and  ardent;  which,  from  the 
manner  of  his  composition,  we  are  naturally  led  to  believe.  The 
character  which  one  forms  of  him.  from  reading  his  works,  is  of  the 
austere,  rather  than  the  gentle  kind.  He  is  on  ever)7  occasion  grave, 
serious,  passionate;  takes  every  thing  on  a  high  tone;  never  lets 
himself  down,  nor  attempts  any  thing  like  pleasantry.  If  any  fault 
can  be  found  with  his  admirable  eloquence,  it  is,  that  he  sometimes 
borders  on  the  hard  and  dry.  He  may  be  thought  to  want  smooth- 
ness and  grace;  which  Dionysius  of  Halicarnassus  attributes  to  his 
imitating  too  closely  the  manner  ci  Thucydides,  who  was  his  great 


LECT.  XXV.] 


QUESTIONS. 


273 


model  for  style,  and  whose  history  he  is  said  to  have  written  eight 
cimes  over  with  his  own  hand.  But  these  defects  are  far  more  than 
compensated,  by  that  admirable  and  masterly  force  of  masculine  elo- 
quence, which,  as  it  overpowered  all  who  heard  it,  cannot,  at  this 
day,  be  read  without  emotion. 

After  the  days  of  Demosthenes,  Greece  lost  her  liberty;  eloquence 
of  course  languished,  and  relapsed  again  into  the  feeble  manner  in- 
troduced by  the  rhetoricians  and  sophists.  Demetrius  Phalerius,  who 
lived  in  the  next  age  to  Demosthenes,  attained  indeed  some  charac- 
ter, but  he  is  represented  to  us  as  a  flowery,  rather  than  a  persuasive 
speaker,  who  aimed  at  grace  rather  than  substance.  '  Delectabat 
Athenienses,'  says  Cicero,  '  magis  quam  inflammabat.'  ■  He  amused 
the  Athenians,  rather  than  warmed  them.'  And  after  his  time,  we 
hear  of  no  more  Grecian  orators  of  any  note. 

QUESTIONS. 


Having  finished  that  part  of  the 
course  which  relates  to  language  and 
style,  what  are  we  now  to  do  ?  With 
what  do  we  begin  ?  In  treating  of  this, 
what  is  to  be  considered  ?  Before  enter- 
ing upon  any  of  these  heads,  what 
may  be  proper  ?  Why  does  our  author 
hope  that  this  detail  will  be  an  useful 
one  ?  Why  is  it  the  more  necessary  to 
ascertain  the  proper  notion  of  elo- 
quence? Hence,  what  has  been  the 
consequence  ?  Why  does  a  plain  man 
hear  you  speak  of  eloquence  with  very 
little  attention ;  and  what  says  he  1 
Under  what  circumstances  would  he  be 
in  the  right?  From  what  does  it  appear 
that,  to  be  truly  eloquent,  is  to  speak  to 
the  purpose  ?  How  is  this  illustrated  ? 
Who,  therefore,  is  the  most  eloquent 
man;  and  what  remark  follows  ?  What 
does  the  definition  of  eloquence,  com- 
prehend? When  does  the  power  of 
eloquence  chiefly  appear;  and  why? 
This  being  once  established,  what  con- 
sequence follows?  How  does  it  appear, 
that  good  sense  is  the  foundation  of  all  ? 
In  order  to  persuade  a  man  of  sense, 
what  must  you  first  do ;  and  how,  only, 
is  this  to  be  done?  To  what  observation 
does  this  lead  ?  What  are  the  respec- 
tive effects  ol  conviction  and  persua- 
sion? How  is  this  illustrated?  Under 
what  circumstances  should  conviction 
and  persuasion  go  together  ?  But,  from 
the  constitution  of  our  nature,  what  re- 
sults; and  what  follows?  Of  convic- 
tion, however,  what  is  observed ;  and 
why  must  an  orator  first  bend  his 
strength  to  train  it?  But,  in  order  to 
persuade,  what  is  necessary;  and 
hence,  what  follows  ?  What  objection 
may  hence  be  formed  against  eloquence? 


As  there  is  no  doubt  that  it  may,  wha. 
conclusion  is  drawn?  But  why  should 
no  man  think  of  forming  an  argument 
from  this,  against  the  cultivation  of  our 
reasoning  powers  ?  Give  truth  and  vir- 
tue the  same  arms  that  you  give  vice 
and  falseheod,  and  what  will  be  the 
consequence  ?  Of  what  is  eloquence  not 
the  invention?  How  does  it  appear, 
that  nature  teaches  every  man  to  be 
eloquent?  What,  only,  does  the  art  of 
oratory  propose;  and  what  follows? 
How  many  degrees  of  eloquence  may 
we  distinguish ;  and  what  is  the  first  1 
What  examples  of  it  are  given?  Why 
is  not  this  ornamental  sort  of  composi- 
tion to  be  rejected?  But  cf  it,  what 
must  be  confessed  ?  What  is  a  second, 
and  higher  decree  of  eloquence? 
Within  this  compass,  is  chiefly  em- 
ployed what  species  of  eloquence?  But 
what  is  the  third,  and  still  higher  de- 
gree of  eloquence  ?  What  opens  the 
most  illustrious  field  to  this  species  of 
eloquence ;  and  what,  also,  admits  it  ? 
What  does  our  author  here  observe ; 
and  by  it,  what  is  meant  ?  How  is  this 
illustrated  ?  When  is  passion  universal- 
ly found  to  exalt  all  the  human  pow- 
ers ;  and  what  is  its  influence  on  the 
mind  ?  Why  does  a  man,  actuated  by 
a  strong  passion,  become  much  greater 
than  he  is  at  other  times?  With  re- 
spect to  what,  is  the  power  of  persua- 
sion felt;  and  when  is  almost  every 
man  eloquent?  Of  him,  what  is  then 
observed;  and  what  does  he  then  do? 
Of  what,  is  this  the  foundation  ?  This 
principle  being  once  admitted,  that  all 
high  eloquence  flows  from  passion,  what 
consequences  follow?  Of  ihese  ideas, 
what  is  observed  ?  From  what  has  al- 


273  n 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  XXV 


r'xidy  been  said,  what  is  evident ;  and 
what  does  it  require?  Viewing  it  as  the 
art  of  persuasion,  in  its  lowest  state 
what  does  it  require  ;  and  what  does  it 
also  require,  in  its  highest  degrees  ? 
To  what  do  we  next  proceed?  What 
observation  is  made  by  several  critics  ? 
Of  Longinus,  what  is  here  observed ; 
and  of  liberty,  what  does  he  remark  ? 
What  does  he  say  of  all  other  qualifica- 
tions? How  must  this  reasoning  be  un- 
ierstood ;  and  why  ?  What  illustration 
of  this  remark  is  given  ?  Of  French 
sermons  and  orations,  what  is  observed? 
Of  what  kind,  however,  is  their  elo- 
quence? Where,  only,  is  high,  manly, 
and  forcible  eloquence,  to  be  looked  for  ? 
How  is  this  remark  illustrated  ?  Where, 
only,  can  it  be  employed ;  and  from  what 
£  it  excluded  ?  Where  may  we  expect 
that  true  eloquence  will  be  best  under- 
stood ?  Hence,  in  tracing  the  rise  of 
oratory,  what  need  we  not  do  ?  In  those 
ages,  what  existed  ?  Of  the  first  ages, 
what  is  there  reason  to  believe ;  and  to 
what  was  this  owing?  What,  in  this 
state,  had  an  ample  field  ?  But,  what 
follows  ?  Why  were  more  of  those  re- 
finements of  society,  which  make  pub- 
lic speaking  an  object  of  importance, 
introduced  in  the  first  empires  ?  When 
do  we  find  the  first  remarkable  appear- 
ance of  eloquence  as  the  art  of  persua- 
sion ?  Of  these,  what  is  observed ;  and, 
therefore,  what  follows  ? 

How  was  Greece  divided ;  and  how 
were  these  governed?  During  what 
time  may  we  compute  the  flourishing 
period  of  those  states  to  have  lasted  ? 
Of  this  period,  what  is  observed?  Of 
these  republics,  which  was  by  far  the 
most  noted  lor  eloquence,  and  for  arts 
of  every  kind  ?  Of  the  Athenians, 
what  is  observed?  What  was  the 
genius  of  their  government;  and  of 
what  did  their  legislature  consist  ?  Of 
the  latter,  what  is  observed ;  and  there, 
how  were  affairs  conducted?  What 
was  there  done  ;  and  why  ?  In  such  a 
state,  what  would  be  much  studied,  as 
the  surest  means  of  rising  to  influence 
and  power ;  of  what  kind  was  it ;  and 
why  ?  In  so  enlightened  and  acute  a 
,  nation,  what  may  we  expect  to  find  ? 
And,  accordingly,  what  was  the  re- 
sult ?  What,  notwithstanding,  was 
sometimes  effected  by  ambitious  dema- 
gogues, and  corrupt  orators ;  and  why? 
When  did  they  distinguish  between 
genuine  and  spurious  eloquence  ?  And 
hence,   of  Demosthenes,  what  is  ob- 


served ;  and  why  ?  When  would  so- 
phistical reasoning  have  been  resented 
and  punished  by  them  ?  Why  did  their 
greatest  orators,  on  such  occasions, 
tremble;  and  what  remark  follows?  In 
what  manner  was  their  eloquence  pro- 
duced ?  Of  PisistratuSjWhat  is  observed ; 
and  for  what  purpose  did  he  employ 
his  ability  in  these  arts  ?  Of  the  ora- 
tors who  flourished  between  his  time 
and  the  Peleponnesian  war,  what  is 
observed?  What  is  said  of  Pericles? 
How  long  did  he  govern  Athens  by  his 
eloquence ;  and  of  it,  what  is  remark- 
ed? Hence,  what  surname  was  given 
him ;  and  why  ?  What  was  it,  that 
gave  such  power  to  his  eloquence? 
What  is  further  observed  of  him  1 
What  remarkable  particular  is  record- 
ed of  him  by  Suidas  ?  Posterior  to  Pe- 
ricles, who  arose  ;  and  what  is  said  of 
them  ?  What  says  Cicero  of  the  man- 
ner of  oratory  that  then  prevailed  ? 
This  manner  is  very  different  from 
what  ?  To  what  did  the  power  of  elo- 
quence give  birth,  after  the  days  of 
Cicero  ?  Of  these  sophists,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  What  is  remarked  of  Gorgias  ? 
Whence  do  we  learn  his  style  and 
manner ;  and  what  is  said  of  it  ?  With 
what  did  these  rhetoricians  not  content 
themselves  ;  but  what  did  they  possess? 
Upon  this  plan,  they  were  the  first  that 
treated  of  what  ?  In  the  hands  of  such 
men,  what,  may  we  easily  believe  ?  To 
them  who  opposed  himself?  How  did 
he  explode  their  sophistry;  and  what 
did  he  endeavour  to  effect?  In  the 
same  age,  who  flourished ;  what  was 
he ;  and  what  did  he  acquire  ?  With 
what  are  his  orations  filled?  In  what 
did  he  never  engage;  and  what  fol- 
lows ?  What  does  Cicero  allow  ?  Of  the 
style  of  Gorgias  of  Leontium,  what 
is  observed;  and  also  of  the  style  of 
Isocrates  ?  How  much  time  did  he  em- 
ploy in  composing  his  panegyric ;  and 
of  this,  what  is  remarked  ?  What  has 
Dionysius  given  us  upon  the  orations 
of  Isocrates?  What  does  he  commend ; 
but.  what  does  he  censure?  WThat  does 
he  hold  him  to  be  ?  In  Cicero's  critical 
works,  what  is  observed  of  him  ?  In 
one  of  his  treatises,  what  does  he  tell 
us?  Why  does  the  manner  of  Isocrates 
Generally  catch  young  people  ?  But 
when  they  come  to  write  or  speak  for 
the  world,  what  will  they  find?  To 
what  did  the  reputation  of  Isocrates 
prompt  Aristotle  ?  What  does  he  seem 
i  to  have  had  in  view  ?  WThat  other  two 


LECT    XXVI.] 


QUESTIONS. 


273  6 


orators  belong  also  to  this  period  ?  Of 
Lysias,  what  is  observed ;  and  what  is 
said  of  Isseus?  What  circumstances, 
in  the  case  of  Demosthenes,  are  very 
encouraging  to  th.se  who  study  elo- 
quence; and  why?  Despising  the  af- 
fected and  florid  manner  of  that  age, 
to  what  did  he  return?  Of  the  field 
that  his  capital  orations  opened  to  him 
what  is  observed  ?  What  is  the  subject 
of  them?  In  what  manner  does  he 
prosecute  this  end  ?  How  does  he  treat 
his  contemporary  orators,  who  were  in 
Philip's  interest  ?  What  does  he  do  be- 
sides prompting  to  rigorous  conduct  ? 
What  is  the  strain  of  these  orations  ?  In 
what  manner  do  they  proceed  ?  Of  his 
figures,  what  is  observed  ?  What  is  it 
that  forms  his  character?  How  is  this 
illustrated?  In  contrast  with  whom 
does  Demosthenes  appear  to  great  ad- 
vantage ;  and  of  the  latter,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  Describe,  particularly,  the 
manner  of  the  two  orators,  in  contrast 
with  each  other?  How  is  the  style  of 
Demosthenes  described  ?  Of  his  action, 


ana  pronunciation  what  is  observed  ? 
From  reading  his  works,  what  charac- 
ter would  one  naturally  form  of  him, 
and  why  ?  On  what  does  he  sometimes 
border  ?  To  what  is  this  want  of  smooth- 
ness and  grace  to  be  attributed  ?  But.  by 
what  are  these  defects  more  than  com- 
pensated ?  What  was  the  consequence 
of  the  loss  of  liberty  in  Greece  ?  Of  De- 
metrius Phalerius  what  is  observed  ? 


ANALYSIS. 
Eloquence. 

1.  Introductory  remarks. 

2.  The  definition  of  eloquence. 

a.  Conviction  and  persuasion  contrast- 
ed. 

e.  Objections  to  it,  considered. 
Degrees  of  Eloquence. 

1.  To  please  only. 

2.  To  please,  to  inform,  to  instruct,  &c. 

3.  To  interest,  to  agitate,  &c. 
a.  The  offspring'  of  passion. 

4.  Eloquence  to  be  found  in  tike  regions 

of  freedom  only. 

5.  Its  origin. 
a.  Athens. 

a.  Pisistratus,  Pericles,  Isociates,  &c. 

b.  Demosthenes. 


LECTURE  XXVI. 

HISTORY  OF  ELOQUENCE  CONTINUED.— ROMAN 
ELOQUENCE.— CICERO.— MODERN  ELOQUENCE. 
Having  treated  of  the  rise  of  eloquence,  and  of  its  state  among 
the  Greeks,  we  now  proceed  to  consider  its  progress  among  the  Ro- 
mans, where  we  shall  find  one  model,  at  least,  of  eloquence,  in  its 
most  splendid  and  illustrious  form.  The  Romans  were  long  a  mar- 
tial nation,  altogether  rude,  and  unskilled  in  arts  of  any  kind.  Arts 
were  of  a  late  introduction  among  them  ;  they  were  not  known  till 
after  the  conquest  of  Greece  ;  and  the  Romans  always  acknowledge 
the  Grecians  as  their  masters  in  every  part  of  learning. 

Grecia  capta  ferum  victorum  cepit,  et  artes 

Intulit  agresti  Latio.* Hor.  Epist.  ad  Aug. 

As  the  Romans  derived  their  eloquence,  poetry,  and  learning,  from 
the  Greeks,  so  they  must  be  confessed  to  be  far  inferior  to  them  in 
genius  for  all  these  accomplishments.  They  were  a  more  grave  and 
magnificent,  but  a  less  acute  and  sprightly  people.  They  had  neither 
the  vivacity  nor  the  sensibility  of  the  Greeks;  their  passions  were 
not  so  easily  moved,  nor  their  conceptions  so  lively ;  in  comparison 
of  them,  they  were  a  phlegmatic  nation.  Their  language  resembled 
their  character ;  it  was  regular,  firm,  and  stately  ;  but  wanted  that 
simple  and  expressive  naivete,  and,  in  particular,  that  flexibility  to ' 
suit  every  different  mode  and  species  of  composition,  for  which  the 
Greek  tongue  is  distinguished  above  that  of  every  other  country. 

*  When  conquer1  d  Greece  brought  in  her  captive  arts, 

She  triumph' d  o'er  her  savage  conquerors'  hearts; 

Taught  our  rough  verse  its  numbers  to  refine, 

And  our  rude  style  with  tlegance  to  shine.  Francis. 


274  CICERO.  [lect.  xxvi 

Graiis  ingenium,  Graiis  dedit  ore  rotundo 

Musa  loqui.* Ars.  Poet. 

And  hence,  when  we  compare  together  the  various  rival  produc- 
tions of  Greece  and  Rome,  we  shall  always  find  th  .s  distinction  ob- 
tain, that  in  the  Greek  productions  there  is  more  native  genius  ;  in  the 
Roman,  more  regularity  and  art  What  the  Greeks  invented,  tne 
Romans  polished;  the  one  was  the  original,  rough  sometimes,  and 
incorrect;  the  other,  a  finished  copy. 

As  the  Roman  government,  during  the  republic,  was  of  the  popu- 
lar kind,  there  is  no  doubt  but  that,  in  the  hands  of  the  leading  men, 
public  speaking  became  early  an  engine  of  government,  and  was  em- 
ployed for  gaining  distinction  and  power.  But  in  the  rude  unpolish- 
ed times  of  the  state,  their  speaking  was  hardly  of  that  sort  that 
could  be  called  eloquence.  Though  Cicero,  in  his  Treatise,  'De 
Claris  Oratoribus,'  endeavours  to  give  some  reputation  to  the  elder 
Cato,  and  those  who  were  his  contemporaries,  yet  he  acknowledges  it 
to  have  been  '  Asperum  et  horridum  genus  dicendi,'  a  rude  and  harsh 
strain  of  speech.  It  was  not  till  a  short  time  preceding  Cicero's  age, 
that  the  Roman  orators  rose  into  any  note.  Crassus  and  Antonius, 
two  of  the  speakers  in  the  dialogue  De  Oratore,  appear  to  have  been 
the  most  eminent,  whose  different  manners  Cicero  describes  with 
great  beauty  in  that  dialogue,  and  in  his  other  rhetorical  works.  But 
as  none  of  their  productions  are  extant,  nor  any  of  Hortensius's,  who 
was  Cicero's  contemporary  and  rival  at  the  bar,  it  is  needless  to  trans- 
scribe  from  Cicero's  writings  the  account  which  he  gives  of  those 
great  men,  and  of  the  character  of  their  eloquence.! 

The  object  in  this  period,  most  worthy  to  draw  our  attention,  is 
Cicero  himself;  whose  name  alone  suggests  every  thing  that  is  splen- 
did in  oratory.  With  the  history  of  his  life,  and  with  his  character 
as  a  man  and  a  politician,  we  have  not  at  present  any  direct  concern. 
We  consider  him  only  as  an  eloquent  speaker ;  and  in  this  view,  it  is 
our  business  to  remark  both  his  virtues  and  his  defects,  if  he  has  any. 
His  virtues  are,  beyond  controversy,  eminently  great.  In  all  his  ora- 
tions there  is  high  art.  He  begins,  generally,  with  a  regular  exordi- 
um ;  and  with  much  preparation  and  insinuation  prepossesses  the  hear- 
ers, and  studies  to  gain  their  affections.  His  method  is  clear,and  his 
arguments  are  arranged  with  great  propriety.  His  method  is  indeed 
more  clear  than  that  of  Demosthenes;  and  this  is  one  advantage 
which  he  has  over  him.  We  find  every  thing  in  its  proper  place  j 
he  never  attempts  to  move,  till  he  has  endeavoured  to  convince : 
and  in  moving,  especially  the  softer  passions,  he  is  very  successful. 
No  man  knew  the  power  and  force  of  words  better  than  Ci- 
cero.    He  rolls  them  alon^  with  the  greatest  beauty  and  pomp; 

*  To  her  lov'd  Greeks  the  muse  indulgent  gave, 

To  her  lov'd  Greeks  with  greatness  to  conceive  ; 

And  in  sublimer  tone  tueir  language  raise: 

Her  Greeks  were  only  covetous  of  praise.  Francis* 

+  Such  as  are  desirous  of  particular  information  on  this  head,  bad  better  hare 
recourse  to  the  origina.,  by  reading  Cicero's  three  books  de  Oratore,  ana  his  other  tw« 
treatises,  entided,  the  one  Brutus,  Sive  de  Claris  Oratoribus  ;  the  other,  Orator,  ad  M. 
Brutum  ;  which,  on  several  accounts,  well  deserve  perusal 


lect.  xxvt.]  CICERO.  275 

and,  in  thestructure  of  his  sentences,  is  curious  and  exact  to  the  high- 
est degree.  He  is  always  full  and  flowing,  never  abrupt.  He  is  a 
great  amplifier  of  every  subject;  magnificent,  and  in  his  sentiments 
highly  moral.  His  manner  is  on  the  whole  diffuse,  yet  it  is  often  hap- 
pily varied,  and  suited  to  the  subject.  In  his  four  orations,  for  in- 
stance, against  Catiline,  the  tone  and  style  of  each  of  them,  parti- 
cularly the  first  and  last,  is  very  different,  and  accommodated  with  a 
great  deal  of  judgment  to  the  occasion,  and  the  situation  in  which 
they  were  spoken.  When  a  great  public  object  roused  his  mind,  and 
demanded  indignation  and  force,  he  departs  considerably  from  that 
loose  and  declamatory  manner  to  which  he  leans  at  other  times,  and 
becomes  exceedingly  cogent  and  vehement.  This  is  the  case  in 
his  orations  against  Anthony,  and  in  those  two  against  Verres  and 
Catiline. 

Together  with  those  high  qualities  which  Cicero  possesses,  he  is 
not  exempt  from  certain  defects,  of  which  it  is  necessary  to  take 
notice.  For  the  Ciceronian  eloquence  is  a  pattern  so  dazzling  by 
its  beauties,  that,  if  not  examined  with  accuracy  and  judgment,  it 
is  apt  to  betray  the  unwary  into  a  faulty  imitation;  and  I  am  of  opi- 
nion, that  it  has  sometimes  produced  this  effect.  In  most  of  his  ora- 
tions, especially  those  composed  in  the  earlier  part  of  his  life,  there 
is  too  much  art;  even  carried  the  length  of  ostentation.  There  is 
too  visible  a  parade  of  eloquence.  He  seems  often  to  aim  at  ob- 
taining admiration,  rather  than  at  operating  conviction,  by  what  he 
says.  Hence,  on  some  occasions,  he  is  showy  rather  than  solid  ;  and 
diffuse,  where  he  ought  to  have  been  pressing.  His  sentences  are, 
at  all  times,  round  and  sonorous;  they  cannot  be  accused  of  mono- 
tony, for  they  possess  variety  of  cadence ;  but,  from  too  great  a  stu- 
dy of  magnificence,  he  is  sometimes  deficient  in  strength.  On  all 
occasions,  where  there  i.°  the  least  room  for  it,  he  is  full  of  himself. 
His  great  actions,  and  the  real  services  which  he  had  performed  to 
his  country,  apologized  for  this  in  part;  ancient  manners,  too,  im- 
posed fewer  restraints  from  the  side  of  decorum;  but,  even  after 
these  allowances  made,  Cicero's  ostentation  of  himself  cannot  be 
wholly  palliated ;  and  his  orations,  indeed  all  his  works,  leave  on 
our  minds  the  impression  of  a  good  man,  but  withal,  of  a  vain  man. 

The  defects  which  we  have  now  taken  notice  of  in  Cicero's  elo- 
quence, were  not  unobserved  by  his  own  contemporaries.  This  we 
learn  from  Quintilian,  and  from  the  author  of  the  dialogue, -de  Causis 
Corruptas  Eloquentise.'  Brutus,  we  are  informed,  called  him, '  frac- 
tum  et  elumbem,'  broken  and  enervated.  '  Suorum  temporum  ho- 
mines,' says  Quintilian,  '  incessere  audebant  eum  ut  tumidiorem  et 
Asianum,  et  redundantem,  et  in  repetitionibus  nimium,  et  in  salibus 
aliquandofrigidum,etin  compositionefractumetexsultantem,  et  pe- 
ne  viro  molliorem.'*     These  censures  were  undoubtedly  carried  too 


*  '  His  contemporaries  ventured  to  reproach  him  as  swelling,  redundant,  and  Asia- 
U". ;  tro  frequent  in  repetitions  ;  in  his  attempts  towards  wit  sometimes  cold  ;  and  in 
the  str.iin  of  his  composition,  feeble,  desultory,  and  more  effeminate  than  became  a 
man.' 

2R 


276  COMPARISON  OF  [lect.  xxvi 

far;  and  savour  of  malignity  and  personal  enmity.  They  saw  his  de- 
fects, but  they  aggravated  them ;  and  the  source  of  these  aggrava- 
tions can  be  traced  to  the  difference  which  prevailed  in  Rome,  in  Ci 
cercr's  days,  between  two  great  parties,  with  respect  to  eloquence, 
the  'Attici,'  and  the  '  Asiani.'  The  former, who  called  themselver 
the  Attics,  were  the  patrons  of  what  they  conceived  to  be  the  chaste 
simple, and  natural  style  of  eloquence;  from  which  they  accused  Ci 
cero  as  having  departed,  and  as  leaning  to  the  florid  Asiatic  manner 
In  several  of  his  rhetorical  works,  particularly  in  his  '  Orator  ad  Bru- 
tum,'  Cicero,  in  his  turn,  endeavours  to  expose  this  sect,  as  substitut- 
ing a  frigid  and  jejune  manner,  in  place  of  the  true  Attic  eloquence ; 
and  contends,  that  his  own  composition  was  formed  upon  the  real  At- 
tic style.  In  the  10th  chapter  of  the  last  book  of  Quintilian's  Insti- 
tutions, a  full  account  is  given  of  the  disputes  between  these  two  par- 
ties; and  of  the  Rhodian,  or  middle  manner,  between  the  Attics  and 
the  Asiatics.  Quintilian  himself  declares  on  Cicero's  side;  and, 
whether  it  be  called  Attic  or  Asiatic,  prefers  the  full,  the  copious, 
and  the  amplifying  style.  He  concludes  with  this  very  just  observa- 
tion :  '  Plures  sunt  eloquentiae  facies;  sed  stultissimum  est  quaerere, 
ad  quam  recturus  se  sit  orator;  cum  omnis  species,  quae  modo  recta 
est,  habeat  usum.  Utetur  enim,  ut  res  exiget,  omnibus;  nee  pro 
causa  modo,  sed  pro  partibus  causae.'* 

On  the  subject  of  comparing  Cicero  and  Demosthenes,  much 
has  been  said  by  critical  writers.  The  different  manners  of  these 
two  princes  of  eloquence,  and  the  distinguishing  characters  of  each, 
are  so  strongly  marked  in  their  writings,  that  the  comparison  is,  in 
many  respects,  obvious  and  easy.  The  character  of  Demosthenes 
is  vigour  and  austerity;  that  of  Cicero  is  gentleness  and  insinuation. 
Tn  the'  one,  you  find  more  manliness ;  in  the  other,  more  ornament. 
The  one  is  more  harsh,  but  more  spirited  and  cogent;  the  other 
more  agreeable,  but  withal  looser  and  weaker. 

To  account  for  this  difference  without  any  prejudice  to  Cicero,  it 
has  been  said,  that  we  must  look  to  the  nature  of  their  different 
auditories;  that  the  refined  Athenians  followed  with  ease  the  con- 
cise and  convincing  eloquence  of  Demosthenes  :  but  that  a  manner 
more  popular,  more  flowery  and  declamatory,  was  requisite  in 
speaking  to  the  Romans,  a  people  less  acute,  and  less  acquainted 
with  the  arts  of  speech.  But  this  is  not  satisfactory.  For  we  must 
observe,  that  the  Greek  orator  spoke  much  oftener  before  a  mixed 
multitude,  than  the  Roman.  Almost  all  the  public  business  of 
"Athens  was  transacted  in  popular  assemblies.  The  common  people 
were  his  hearers,  and  his  judges.  Whereas,  Cicero  generally  ad- 
dressed himself  to  the  '  Patres  Conscripti,'  or  in  criminal  trials  to 
the  Praetor,  and  the  select  judges ;  and  it  cannot  be  imagined,  that 
the  persons  of  highest  rank,  and  best  education  in  Rome,  required  a 

*  '  Eloquence  admits  of  many  different  forms  :  and  nothing  can  be  more  foolish 
than  to  inquire,  by  which  of  them  an  orator  is  to  regulate  his  composition  ;  since 
every  form,  which  is  in  itself  just,  has  its  own  place  and  use.  The  orator,  accordmg 
as  circumstances  require,  will  employ  them  all ;  suiting  them  not  only  to  the  cause  or 
subject  of  which  he  treats,  but  to  the  different  parts  of  that  subject.' 


lect.xxvi.]         CICERO  AND  DEMOSTHENES.  277 

more  diffuse  manner  of  pleading  than  the  common  citizens  of 
Athens,  in  order  to  make  them  understand  the  cause,  or  relish  the 
speaker.  Perhaps  we  shall  come  nearer  the  truth,  by  observing, 
that  to  unite  all  the  qualities,  without  the  least  exception,  that 
form  a  perfect  orator,  and  to  excel  equally  in  each  of  those  quali- 
ties, is  not  to  be  expected  from  the  limited  powers  of  human  ge 
nius.  The  highest  degree  of  strength  is,  I  suspect,  never  found 
united  with  the  highest  degree  of  smoothness  and  ornament;  equal 
attention  to  both  are  incompatible ;  and  the  genius  that  carries  or- 
nament to  its  utmost  length,  is  not  of  such  a  kind  as  can  excel  as 
much  in  vigour.  For  there  plainly  lies  the  characteristical  difference 
between  these  two  celebrated  orators. 

It  is  a  disadvantage  to  Demosthenes,  that  besides  his  conciseness, 
which  sometimes  produces  obscurity,  the  language  in  which  he 
writes  is  less  familiar  to  most  of  us  than  the  Latin,  and  that  we 
are  less  acquainted  with  the  Greek  antiquities  than  we  are  with  the 
Roman.  We  read  Cicero  with  more  ease,  and  of  course  with  more 
pleasure.  Independent  of  this  circumstance,  too,  he  is,  no  doubt, 
in  himself,  a  more  agreeable  writer  than  the  other.  But  notwith- 
standing this  advantage,  I  am  of  opinion,  that  were  the  state  in  dan- 
ger, or  some  great  national  interest  at  stake,  which  drew  the  serious 
attention  of  the  public,  an  oration  in  the  spirit  and  strain  of  Demosthe- 
nes would  have  more  weight,  and  produce  greater  effects,than  one  in 
the  Ciceronian  manner.  Were  Demosthenes'  Philippics  spoken 
in  a  British  assembly,  in  a  similar  conjuncture  of  affairs,  they  would 
convince  and  persuade  at  this  day.  The  rapid  style,  the  vehement 
reasoning,  the  disdain,  anger,  boldness,  freedom,  which  perpe- 
tually animate  them,  would  render  their  success  infallible  over  any 
modern  assembly.  I  question  whether  the  same  can  be  said  of 
Cicero's  orations;  whose  eloquence,  however  beautiful,  and  how- 
ever well  suited  to  the  Roman  taste,  yet  borders  oftener  on  decla- 
mation, and  is  more  remote  from  the  manner  in  which  we  now  ex- 
pect to  hear  real  business  and  causes  of  importance  treated.* 

In  comparing  Demosthenes  and  Cicero,  most  of  the  French 
critics  are  disposed  to  give  the  preference  to  the  latter.  P.  Rapin  the 
lesuit,  in  the  parallels  which  he  has  drawn  between  some  of  the 
most  eminent  Greek  and  Roman  writers,  uniformly  decides  in 
favour  of  the  Roman.  For  the  preference  which  he  gives  to  Ci- 
cero, he  assigns,  and  lays  stress  on,  one  reason  of  a  pretty  extraor- 
dinary nature;  viz.  that  Demosthenes  could  not  possibly  have  so 
complete  an  insight  as  Cicero  into  the  manners  and  passions  ot 
men:  Why? — Because  he  had  not  the  advantage  of  perusing  Am 
totle's  Treatise  of  Rhetoric,  wherein,  says  our  critic,  he  has  fully 
laid  open  that  mystery  ;  and,  to  support  this  weighty  argument,  he 
enters  into  a  controversy  with  A.  Gellius,  in  order  to  prove  that 
Aristotle's  Rhetoric  was  not  published  till  after  Demosthenes  had 


*  In  this  judgment  I  concur  with  Mr.  David  Hume,  in  his  Essay  upon  Eloquence 
He  gives  it  as  his  opinion, that  of  all  human  productions,  the  orations  of  DemosthenM 
present  to  us  the  models  which  approach  the  nearest  to  perfection. 


278  CICERO  AND  DEMOSTHENES.         [lect.  xxv* 

spoken,  at  leas*,  his  most  considerable  orations.  Nothing  can  be 
more  childish.  Such  orators  as  Cicero  and  Demosthenes,  derived 
their  knowledge  of  the  human  passions,  and  their  power  of  moving 
them,  from  higher  sources  than  any  treatise  of  rhetoric.  One 
French  critic  has  indeed  departed  from  the  common  track ;  and, 
after  bestowing  on  Cicero  those  just  praises  to  which  the  consent  of 
so  many  ages  shows  him  to  be  entitled,  concludes,  however,  with 
giving  the  palm  to  Demosthenes.  This  is  Fenelon,  the  famous 
archbishop  of  Cambray,  and  author  of  Telemachus;  himself  sure- 
ly no  enemy  to  all  the  graces  and  flowers  of  composition.  It  is  in 
his  Reflections  on  Rhetoric  and  Poetry,  that  he  gives  this  judgment; 
a  small  tract,  commonly  published  along  with  his  dialogues  on  elo- 
quence.* These  dialogues  and  reflections  are  particularly  worthy 
of  perusal,  as  containing,  I  think,  the  justest  ideas  on  the  subject 
that  are  to  be  met  with  in  any  modern  critical  writer. 

The  reign  of  eloquence,  among  the  Romans,  was  very  short. 
After  the  age  of  Cicero,  it  languished,  or  rather  expired;  and  we 
have  no  reason  to  wonder  at  this  being  the  case.  For  not  only 
was  liberty  entirely  extinguished,  but  arbitrary  power  felt  in  its 
heaviest  and  most  oppressive  weight;  Providence  having,  in  its 
wrath,  delivered  over  the  Roman  empire  to  a  succession  of  some 
of  the  most  execrable  tyrants  that  ever  disgraced  and  scourged  the 
human  race.  Under  tfieir  government  it  was  naturally  to  be 
expected  that  taste  would  be  corrupted,  and  genius  discouraged. 
Some  of  the  ornamental  arts,  less  intimately  connected  with  liber- 
ty, continued,  for  a  while,  to  prevail ;  but  for  that  masculine 
eloquence,  which  had  exercised  itself  in  the  senate,  and  in  the 
public  affairs,  there  was  no  longer  any  place.  The  change  that 
was  produced  on  eloquence,  by  the  nature  of  the  government, 
and  the  state  of  the  public  manners,  is  beautifully  described  in  the 
Dialogue  de  CausiscorruptaeEloquentias,which  is  attributed  by  some 
to  Tacitus,  by  others,  to  Quintilian.  Luxury,  effeminacy,  and  flat- 
tery, overwhelmed  all.  The  forum,  where  so  many  great  affairs 
had  been  transacted,  was  now  become  a  desert.  Private  causes  were 
still  pleaded  ;  but  the  public  was  no  longer  interested;  nor  any  gen- 
eral attention  drawn  to  what  passed  there  :  '  Unus  inter  ha?c,  et  alter, 

*  As  his  expressions  are  remarkably  happy  and  beautiful,  the  passage  here  re- 
ferred to  deserves  to  be  inserted.  'Je  ne  crams  pas  de  dire,  que  Demosthene  irse 
paroit  superieur  k  Ciceron.  Je  proteste  que  personne  n"admire  plus  Ciceron  que 
je  ne  fais.  II  embellit  tout  ce  qu'il  touche.  II  fait  honneur  a  la  parole.  II  fait  des 
mots  ce  qu'un  autre  n'en  sauroit  faire.  II  a  je  ne  sais  combien  de  sortes  d'esprits. 
II  est  meme  court,  et  vehement,  toutes  les  fois  qu'il  vent  l'etre  ;  contre  Catiline, 
contre  Verres,  contre  Antoine.  Mais  on  remarque  quelque  parure  dans  sons  dis- 
cours.  L'art  y  est  merveilleux  ;  mais  on  l'entrevoit.  L'orateur  en  pensant  au 
salut  de  la  republique,  ne  s'oublie  pas,  et  ne  se  laKsse  pas  oublier.  Demosthene 
paroit  sortfr  de  soi,  et  ne  voir  que  la  patrie.  II  ne  cherche  point  le  beau  ;  il  It 
fait  sans  y  penser.  II  est  au-dessus  d«  l'admiration.  I!  se  sert  de  !a  parole, 
comme  un  homme  modest^  £,:  «on  habit,  pour  se  couvrir.  II  tonne  ;  il  foudroye. 
C'est  un  torrent  qu:  emraine  tout.  On  ne  pent  le  rritiquer,  parcrqu'on  est. 
sais/  On  pense  aux  choses  qu'il  dit,  et  non  a  ses  paroles.  On  le  perd  de  vue 
On  n'est  occupe  que  de  Phillippe  qui  envahit  tout.  Je  suis  charm6  dt  ces  deuj 
orateurs  ■  mais  j'avoue  que  je  suis  moins  touche  de  l'art  infini,  et  de  la  magnifique 
eloquent  e  de  Ciceron  que  dela  rapide  simplicite  de  Demosthene.' 


lect.  xxvi.]    DECAY  OF  ROMAN  ELOQUENCE.  279 

dicenti,  assistit ;  et  res  velut  in  solitudine  agitur.     Oratori  autem 
clamore  plausuque  opus  est,  et  velut  quodam  theatro,  qualia  quo- 
tidie  antiquis  oratoribus  contingebant ;    cum    tot  ac  tam  nobiles 
forum  coarctarent:  cum  clientelae,  et  tribus,  et  municipiorum  lega 
tiones,  periclitantibus  assisterent;  cum  in  plerisque  judiciis  ere 
deret  populus  Romanus  sua  interesse  quidjudicaretur.'* 

In  the  schools  of  the  deelaimers,  the  corruption  of  eloquence  was 
completed.  Imaginary  and  fantastic  subjects,  such  as  had  no  refer- 
ence to  real  life,  or  business,  were  made  the  themes  of  declamation ; 
and  all  manner  of  false  and  affected  ornaments  were  brought  into  vogue: 
'Pace  vestra  lice.at  dixisse,'  says Petronius  Arbiter,  to  the  deelaim- 
ers of  his  time, '  primi  omnem  eloquentiam  perdidistis.  Levibus  enim 
ac  inanibus  sonis  ludibria  qusedam  excitando,  effecistis  ut  corpus  ora- 
i ionis  enervaretur  atque  caderet.  Et  ideo  ego  existimo  adolescentulos 
in  scholis  stultissimos  fieri,  quia  nihil  ex  iis,  qua?  in  usu  habemus,  aut 
audiunt,  aut vident ;  sed  piratascum  catenis  in  littore  stantes ;  et  tyran- 
nos  edictascribentes  quibus  imperent  filiis  utpatrum  suorum  capita 
prsecidant :  sed  responsa,  inpestilentia  data,  ut virgines  tres  aut  plures 
immolentur;  sed  mellitos  verborum  globulos,  et  omnia  quasi  papa- 
vere,  et  sesamo  sparsa.  Qui  inter  haec  nutriuntur,  non  magis  sapere 
possunt,  quam  bene  olere  qui  in  culina  habitant.'!  In  the  hands  of 
the  Greek  rhetoricians,  the  manly  and  sensible  eloquence  of  their 
first  rioted  speakers,  degenerated,  as  I  formerly  showed,  into  subtil- 
ty  and  sophistry ;  in  the  hands  of  the  Roman  declaimers,  it  passed 
into  the  quaint  and  affected ;  into  point  and  antithesis.  This  corrupt 
manner  begins  to  appear  in  the  writings  of  Seneca:  and  shows  itself 
also  in  the  famous  panegyric  of  Pliny  the  Younger  on  Trajan,  which 
may  be  considered  as  the  last  effort  of  Roman  oratory.  Though  the 
author  was  a  man  of  genius,  yet  it  is  deficient  in  nature  and  ease. 
We  see  throughout  the  whole,  a  perpetual  attempt  to  depart  from 
the  ordinary  way  of  thinking,  and  to  support  a  forced  elevation. 

In  the  decline  of  the  Roman  empire,  the  introduction  of  Chris 
tianity  gave  rise  to  a  new  species  of  eloquence,  in  the  apologies,  ser- 
mons, and  pastoral  writings  of  the  Fathers  of  the  Church.     Among 

*  '  The  courts  of  judicature  are,  at  present,  so  unfrequented,  that  the  orator 
seems  to  stand  alone,  and  to  talk  to  bare  walls.  But  eloquence  rejoices  in  the  bursts 
of  loud  applause,  and  exults  in  a  full  audience  ;  such  as  used  to  press  round  the  an- 
cient orators,  when  the  forum  stood  crowded  with  nobles;  when  a  numerous  reti- 
nue of  clients,  when  foreign  ambassadors,  when  tribes,  and  whole  cities,  assisted 
at  the  debate  ;  and  when,  in  many  trials,  the  Roman  people  understood  themselves 
to  be  concerned  in  the  event.' 

t'YVith  your  permission,  I  must  be  allowed  to  say,  that  you  have  been  the 
first  destroyers  of  all  true  eloquence.  For,  by  those  mock  subjects,  on  which  you 
employ  yeur  empty  and  unmeaning  compositions,  you  have  enervated  and  over- 
thrown all  that  is  manly  and  substantial  in  oratory  I  cannot  but  conclude,  that 
the  youth  whom  you  educate,  must  be  totally  perverted  in  your  schools,  by  hearing 
and  seeing  nothing  which  has  any  affinity  to  real  life,  or  human  affairs ;  but  stories 
of  pirates  standing  on  the  shore,  provided  with  chains  for  loading  their  captives, 
and  of  tyrants  issuing  their  edicts,  by  which  children  are  commanded  to  cut  off  the 
heads  of  their  parents  ;  but  responses  given  by  oracles  in  the  time  of  pestilence, 
that  several  virgins  must  be  sacrificed;  but  glittering  ornaments  of  phrase  and  a 
style  highly  spiced,  if  we  may  say  so,  with  affected  conceits.  They  who  ar2  edu- 
cated in  the  midst  of  such  studies,  can  no  more  acquire  a  good  taste,  than  they  can 
smell  sw«et  who  dwell  perpetually  in  a  kitchen.' 


280  MODERN  ELOQUENCE.  [lect.  xx  n 

the  Latin  Fathers,  Lactantius  and  Minutius  Felix,  are  the  most  re- 
markable for  purity  of  style;  and,  in  a  later  age,  the  famous  St.  Au- 
gustine possesses  a  considerable  share  of  sprightliness  and  strength 
But  none  of  the  Fathers  afford  any  just  models  of  eloquence. 
Their  language,  as  soon  as  we  descend  to  the  third  or  fourth  centu 
ry,  becomes  harsh  ;  and  they  are,  in  general,  infected  with  the  taste 
of  that  age,  a  love  of  swoln  and  strained  thoughts,  and  of  the  play 
of  words.  Among  the  Greek  Fathers,  the  most  distinguished,  by 
far,  for  his  oratorial  merit,  is  St.  Chrysostom.  His  language  is  pure; 
his  style  highly  figured.  He  is  copious,  smooth,  and  sometimes  pa- 
thetic. But  he  retains,  at  the  same  time,  much  of  that  character 
which  has  been  always  attributed  to  the  Asiatic  eloquence,  diffuse 
and  redundant  to  a  great  degree,  and  often  overwrought  and  tumid. 
He  may  be  read,  however,  with  advantage,  for  the  eloquence  of  the 
pulpit,  as  being  freer  from  false  ornaments  than  the  Latin  Fathers. 

As  there  is  nothing  more  that  occurs  to  me,  deserving  particular 
attention  in  the  middle  age,  I  pass  now  to  the  state  of  eloquence  in 
modern  times.  Here  it  must  be  confessed,  that,  in  no  European 
nation,  has  public  speaking  been  considered  so  great  an  object, 
or  been  cultivated  with  so  much  care,  as  in  Greece  or  Rome.  Its 
reputation  has  never  been  so  high;  its  effects  have  never  been  so 
considerable;  nor  has  that  high  and  sublime  kind  of  it,  which  pre- 
vailed in  those  ancient  states,  been  so  much  as  aimed  at:  notwith- 
standing too,  that  a  new  profession  has  been  established,  which  gives 
peculiar  advantages  to  oratory,  and  affords  it  the  noblest  field ;  I 
mean  that  of  the  church.  The  genius  of  the  world  seems,  in  this 
respect,  to  have  undergone  some  alteration.  The  two  countries 
where  we  might  expect  to  find  most  of  the  spirit  of  eloquence;  are 
France  and  Great  Britain:  France,  on  account  of  the  distinguished 
turn  of  the  nation  towards  all  the  liberal  arts,  and  of  the  encourage- 
ment which,  for  this  century  past,  these  arts  have  received  from  the 
public;  Great  Britain,  on  account  both  of  the  public  capacity  and 
genius,  and  of  the  free  government  which  it  enjoys.  Yet  so  it  is, 
that,  in  neither  of  those  countries,  has  the  talent  of  public  speaking 
risen  near  to  the  degree  of  its  ancient  splendour;  while  in  other 
productions  of  genius,  both  in  prose  and  in  poetry,  they  have  con- 
tended for  the  prize  with  Greece  and  Rome;  nay,  in  some  compo- 
sitions,theymaybefhoughttohavesurpassedthem.  The  names  of  De- 
mosthenes and  Cicero  stand,  at  this  day,  unrivalled  in  fame;  and  it 
would  be  held  presumptuous  and  absurd  to  pretend  to  place  any 
modern  whatever  in  the  same,  or  even  in  a  nearly  equal  rank. 

It  seems  particularly  surprising,  thai  Great  Britain  should  not  have 
mude  a  more  conspicuous  figure  in  eloquence  than  it  has  hitherto  at- 
tained; when  we  consider  the  enlightened,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
the  free  and  bold  genius  of  the  country,  which  seems  not  a  little  to 
favour  oratory ;  and  when  we  consider  that,  of  all  the  polite  nations, 
it  alone  possesses  a  popular  government,  or  admits  into  the  legisla- 
ture, such  numerous  assemblies  as  can  be  supposed  to  lie  under  the 
dominion  of  eloquence.*     Notwithstanding  this  advantage,  it  must 

*  Mr.    Hume,  in  his  Essay  on    Eloquence,  makes  this  observation,   and    illustrates 


lect.xxvi.]  MODERN  ELOQUENCE.  281 

be  confessed,  that  in  most  parts  of  eloquence,  we  are  undoubtedly 
inferior,  not  only  to  the  Greeks  and  Romans  by  many  degree'  ^ut 
also  in  some  respects  to  the  French.  We  have  philosophers,  em:;r.eiit 
and  conspicuous,  perhaps,  beyond  any  nation,  in  every  branch  ol 
science.  We  have  both  taste  and  erudition,  in  a  high  degree.  We  have 
historians,  we  have  poets  of  the  greatest  name;  but  of  orators,  or 
public  speakers,  how  little  have  we  to  boast?  And  where  are  the 
monuments  of  their  genius  to  be  found  ?  In  every  period  we  have 
had  some  who  made  a  figure,  by  managing  the  debates  in  parlia- 
ment ;  but  that  figure  was  commonly  owing  to  their  wisdom  or  their 
experience  in  business,  more  than  to  their  talent  for  Lratory  ;  and 
unless  in  some  few  instances,  wherein  the  power  of  oratory  has  ap- 
peared, indeed,  with  much  lustre,  the  art  of  parliamentary  speak- 
ing rather  obtained  to  several  a  temporary  applause,  than  confer- 
red upon  any  a  lasting  renown.  At  the  bar,  though  questionless 
we  have  many  able  pleaders,  yet  few  or  none  of  their  pleadings 
have  been  thought  worthy  to  be  transmitted  to  posterity,  or  have 
commanded  attention,  any  longer  than  the  cause  which  was  the 
subject  of  them  interested  the  public:  while  in  France,  the  plead- 
ings of  Patru,  in  the  former  age,  and  those  of  Cochin  and 
D'Aguesseau,  in  later  times,  are  read  with  pleasure,  and  are  often 
quoted  as  examples  of  eloquence  by  the  French  critics.  In  the 
same  manner,  in  the  pulpit,  the  British  divines  have  distinguished 
themselves  by  the  most  accurate  and  rational  compositions  which, 
perhaps,  any  nation  can  boast  of.  Many  printed  sermons  we  have, 
full  of  good  sense,  and  of  sound  divinity  and  morality,  but  the 
eloquence  to  be  found  in  them,  the  power  of  persuasion,  of  in- 
teresting and  engaging  the  heart,  which  is,  or  ought  to  be,  the 
great  object  of  the  pulpit,  is  far  from  bearing  a  suitable  proportion 
to  the  excellence  of  the  matter.  There  are  few  arts,  in  my  opin- 
ion, farther  from  perfection,  than  that  of  preaching  is  among  us; 
the  reasons  of  which,  I  shall  afterwards  have  occasion  to  discuss: 
in  proof  of  the  fact,  it  is  sufficient  to  observe,  that  an  English 
sermon,  instead  of  being  a  persuasive  animated  oration,  seldom  rises 
beyond  the  strain  of  correct  and  dry  reasoning.  Whereas,  in  the  ser- 
mons of  Bossuet,  Massillon,  Bourdaloue,  and  Flechier,  amcngthe 
French,  we  see  a  much  higher  species  of  eloquence  aimed  at,  and  in 
a  great  measure  attained,  than  the  British  preachers  have  in  view. 
In  general,  the  characteristical  difference  between  the  state  of 
eloquence  in  France  and  in  Great  Britain  is,  that  the  French  have 
adopted  higher  ideas  both  of  pleasing  and  persuading  by  means  ol 
oratory,  though,  sometimes,  in  the  execution,  they  fail.  In  Great 
Britain,  we  have  taken  up  eloquence  on  a  lower  key;  but  in  our 

it  with  his  usual  elegance.  He,  indeed,  supposes,  that  no  satisfactory  reasons  can 
be  given  to  account  for  the  inferiority  of  modern  to  ancient  eloquence.  In  this,  I 
iiffer  from  him,  and  shall  endeavour,  before  the  conclusion  of  this  lecture,  to 
point  out  some  causes  to  which,  I  think,  it  may  in  a  great  measure  be  ascribed 
in  the  three  great  scenes  of  public  speaking. 

36 


282  MODERN  ELOQUENCE.  [lect.  xxvi. 

execution,  as  was  naturally  to  be  expected,  have  been  more  cor- 
rec\  In  France,  the  style  of  their  orators  is  ornamented  with 
bolder  figures;  and  their  discourse  carried  on  with  more  am- 
plification, more  warmth  and  elevation.  The  composition  is  of- 
ten very  beautiful ;  but  sometimes,  also,  too  diffuse,  and  deficient 
in  that  strength  and  cogency  which  renders  eloquence  powerful :  a 
defect  owing,  perhaps,  in  part,  to  the  genius  of  the  people,  which 
leads  them  to  attend  fully  as  much  to  ornament  as  to  substance  ;  and, 
in  part,  to  the  nature  of  their  government,  which,by  excluding  pub- 
lic speaking  from  having  much  influence  on  the  conduct  cf  public 
affairs,  deprives  eloquence  of  its  best  opportunity  for  acquiring 
nerves  and  strength.  Hence  the  pulpit  is  the  principal  field  which 
is  left  for  their  eloquence.  The  members,  too,  of  the  French  aca 
demy,give  harangues  at  their  admission,  in  which  genius  often  ap 
pears;  but,  labouring  under  the  misfortune  of  having  no  subject  to 
discourse  upon,  they  run  commonly  into  flattery  and  panegyric,  the 
most  barren  and  insipid  of  all  topics. 

I  observed  before,  that  the  Greeks  and  Romans  aspired  to  a  more 
sublime  species  of  eloquence,  than  is  aimed  at  by  the  moderns. 
Theirs  was  of  the  vehement  and  passionate  kind,  by  which  they 
endeavoured  to  inflame  the  minds  of  their  hearers,  and  hurry  their 
imagination  away:  and,  suitable  to  this  vehemence  of  thought,  was 
their  vehemence  of  gesture  and  action;  the  'supplosio  pedis'*  the 
'percussio  frontis  et  femoris,'*  were,  as  we  learn  from  Cicero's  wri- 
tings, usual  gestures  among  them  at  the  bar ;  though  now  they  would 
be  reckoned  extravagant  any  where,  except  upon  the  stage.  Modern 
eloquence  is  much  more  cool  and  temperate;  and  in  Great  Britain 
especially,  has  confined  itself  almost  wholly  to  the  argumentative 
and  rational.  It  is  much  of  that  species  which  the  ancient  critics 
called  the  '  Tenuis/  or  *  Subtilis;'  which  aims  at  convincing  and 
instructing,  rather  than  affecting  the  passions,  and  assumes  a  tone 
not  much  higher  than  common  argument  and  discourse. 

Several  reasons  may  be  given,  why  modern  eloquence  has  been 
so  limited  and  humble  in  its  efforts.  In  the  first  place,  I  am  ot 
opinion,  that  this  change  must,  in  part,  be  ascribed  to  that  correct 
turn  of  thinking,  which  has  been  so  much  studied  in  modern  times. 
It  can  .hardly  be  doubted,  that,  in  many  efforts  of  mere  genius^ 
the  ancient  Greeks  and  Romans  excelled  us;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  that,  in  accuracy  and  closeness  of  reasoning  on  many  sub- 
jects, we  have  some  advantage  over  them,  ought,  I  think,  to  be 
admitted  also.  In  proportion  as  the  world  has  advanced,  philo- 
sophy has  made  greater  progress.  A  certain  strictness  of  good  sense 
has,  in  this  island  particularly,  been  cultivated,  and  introduced  into 
every  subject.  Hence  we  are  more  on  our  guard  against  the  flow- 
ers of  elocution;  we  are  now  on  the  watch;  we  are  jealous  of 
being  deceived  by  oratory.  Our  public  speakers  are  obliged  to  be 
more  reserved  than  the  ancients,  in  their  attempts  to  elevate  the 

•  Vide,  De  Clar.  Orator. 


lect.  xxvi.]         MODERN  ELOQUENCE.  283 

imagination,  and  warm  the  passions;  and  by  the  influence  of  pre- 
vailing taste,  their  own  genius  is  sobered  and  chastened,  perhaps, 
in  too  great  a  degree.  It  is  likely  too,  I  confess,  that  what  we 
fondly  ascribe  to  our  correctness  and  good  sense,  is  owing,  in  a 
great  measure,  to  our  phlegm  and  natural  coldness.  For  the  vi 
vacity  and  sensibility  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  more  especial 
ly  of  the  former,  seems  to  have  been  much  greater  than  ours,  and  to 
have  given  them  a  higher  relish  of  all  the  beauties  of  oratory. 

Besides  these  national  considerations,  we  must,  in  the  next  place, 
attend  to  peculiar  circumstances  in  the  three  great  scenes  of  pub- 
lic speaking,  which  have  proved  disadvantageous  to  the  growth  of 
eloquence  among  us.  Though  the  parliament  of  Great  Britain  be 
the  noblest  field  which  Europe,  at  this  day,  affords  to  a  public  speak- 
er, yet  eloquence  has  never  been  so  powerful  an  instrument  there, 
as  it  was  in  the  popular  assemblies  of  Greece  and  Rome.  Under 
some  former  reigns,  the  high  hand  of  arbitrary  power  bore  a  violent 
sway;  and  in  latter  times,  ministerial  influence  has  generally  pre- 
vailed. The  power  of  speaking,  though  always  considerable,  yet 
has  been  often  found  too  feeble  to  counterbalance  either  of  these ; 
and,  of  course,  has  not  been  studied  with  so  much  zeal  and  fervour, 
as  where  its  effect  on  business  was  irresistible  and  certain. 

At  the  bar,  our  disadvantage,  in  comparison  with  the  ancients,  is 
great.  Among  them,  the  judges  were  generally  numerous;  the 
laws  were  few  and  simple;  the  decision  of  causes  was  left,  in  a 
great  measure,  to  equity  and  the  sense  of  mankind.  Here  was  an 
ample  field  for  what  they  termed  judicial  eloquence.  But  among 
the  moderns,  the  case  is  quite  altered.  The  system  of  law  is  be- 
come much  more  complicated.  The  knowledge  of  it  is  thereby 
rendered  so  laborious  an  attainment,  as  to  be  the  chief  object  of  a 
lawyer's  education,  and  in  a  manner,  the  study  of  his  life.  The 
art  of  speaking  is  but  a  secondary  accomplishment,  to  which  he 
can  afford  to  devote  much  less  of  his  time  and  labour.  The  bounds 
of  eloquence,  besides,  are  now  much  circumscribed  at  the  bar ; 
and,  except  in  a  few  cases,  reduced  to  arguing  from  strict  law, 
statute,  or  precedent,  by  which  means  knowledge,  much  more  than 
oratory,  is  become  the  principal  requisite. 

With  regard  to  the  pulpit,  it  has  certainly  been  a  great  disad- 
vantage, that  the  practice  of  reading  sermons,  instead  of  repeating 
them  from  memory,  has  prevailed  in  England.  This  may  indeed 
have  introduced  accuracy;  but  it  has  done  great,  prejudice  to  elo- 
quence ;  for  a  discourse  read  is  far  inferior  to  an  oration  spoken.  It 
leads  to  a  different  sort  of  composition,  as  well  as  of  delivery  ;  and 
ian  never  have  an  equal  effect  upon  any  audience.  Another  circum- 
stance, too,  has  been  unfortunate.  The  sectaries  and  fanatics,  be- 
fore the  Restoration,  adopted  a  warm,  zealous-  and  popular  manner 
of  preaching;  and  those  who  adhered  to  them,  in  aftertimes.  con- 
tinued to  distinguish  themselves  ov  somewhat  of  the  same  manner 
The  odium  of  these  sect"  --Vo^.-  dv  :sf,sUisb~a  church  from  *lia* 
warmth  which  the)  were  judged  to  iiove :  o;,rripf'  u»o  ?ar  r' ^  tne 
2S 


284 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  XXVI 


opposite  extreme  of  a  studied  coolness,  and  composure  of  manner 
Hence,  from  the  art  of  persuasion,  which  preaching  ought  always  to 
be,  it  has  passed,  in  England,  into  mere  reasoning  and  instruction  ; 
which  not  only  has  brought  down  the  eloquence  of  the  pulpit  to  a 
lower  tone  than  it  might  justly  assume  ;  but  has  produced  this  far- 
ther effect,  that  by  accustoming  the  public  ear  to  such  cool  and  dis- 
passionate discourses,  it  has  tended  to  fashion  other  kinds  of  public 
speaking  upon  the  same  model. 

Thus  I  have  given  some  view  of  the  state  of  eloquence  in  modern 
times,  and  endeavoured  to  account  for  it.  It  has,  as  we  have  seen, 
fallen  below  that  splendour  which  it  maintained  in  ancient  ages  ; 
and  from  being  sublime  and  vehement,  has  come  down  to  be  tempe- 
rate and  cool.  Yet,  still,  in  that  region  which  it  occupies,  it  admits 
great  scope  ;  and,  to  the  defect  of  zeal  and  application,  more  than 
the  want  of  capacity  and  genius,  we  may  ascribe  its  not  having 
Siitherto  attained  higher  distinction.  It  is  a  field  where  there  is 
much  honour  yet  to  be  reaped ;  it  is  an  instrument  which  may  be 
employed  for  purposes  of  the  highest  importance.  The  ancient 
models  may  still,  with  much  advantage,  be  set  before  us  for  imita- 
tion :  though,  in  that  imitation,  we  must  doubtless  have  some  re- 
gard to  what  modern  taste  and  modern  manners  will  bear  ;  of  whicli 
I  shall  afterwards  have  occasion  to  say  more. 


QUESTIONS. 


Having  treated  of  the  rise  of  elo- 
quence, and  of  its  state  among  the 
Greeks,  to  what  do  we  now  proceed ; 
and  what  shall  we  there  find  *  Of  the 
Remans,  what  is  observed ;  and  what 
did  they  always  acknowledge  ?  What 
says  Horace  ?  As  the  Romans  derived 
their  eloquence,  poetry,  and  learning, 
from  the  Greeks,  what  is  the  conse- 
quence ?  How  did  they  compare  with 
the  Greeks  ?  What  is  said  of  their  lan- 
guage ?  Repeat  the  passage  here  in- 
troduced from  Horace.  In  comparing 
the  rival  productions  of  Greece  and 
Rome,  what  shall  we  always  find  ? 
As  tiie,  Roman  government,  during  the 
republic,  was  of  the  popular  kind,  of 
what  is  there  no  doubt.  ?  But,  what  re- 
mark follows  ?  Though  Cicero  attempts 
to  give  some  reputation  to  the  elder 
Cato,  yet,  what  does  he  acknowledge? 
When  did  Roman  orators  first  rise  into 
any  note?  Of  Crassus  and  Antonius, 
what  is  observed  ?  What  is  also  ob- 
served of  Hortensius  ?  Who,  in  this  pe- 
riod, it  most  worthy  of  our  attention  ; 
and  what  does  -his  name  alone  sug- 
gest ?  With  what,  at  present,  have  we 
no  direct  concern  ?  How  do  we  consi- 
der him ;  and  in  this  view,  what  is  i* 


our  business  to  do  ?  Of  his  virtues,  and 
of  his  orations,  what  is  observed  ?  How 
does  he  begin  them ;  and  what  is  said 
of  his  method  and  arguments  ?  In  this 
respect,  how  does  he  compare  with 
Demosthenes?  How  is  this  illustrated? 
What  is  observed  of  his  knowledge  oi 
the  force  of  words;  and  how  does  he 
roll  them  along  ?  Of  him,  what  is  fur- 
ther observed  ;  and  what  is  said  of  his 
manner  ?  Of  his  four  orations  against 
Cataline,  what  is  remarked  ?  How  was 
he  affected,  when  a  great  public  object 
roused  his  mind  ?  In  what  orations  is 
this  the  case?  Together  with  those 
hiijh  qualifies,  from  what  is  he  not  ex- 
empt? Why  is  it  necessary  to  notice 
them  ?  What  prevails  in  most  of  his 
orations  ?  What  do  they  contain ;  and 
at  what  does  he  seem  often  to  aim  ? 
Hence,  what  follows?  Of  his  senten- 
ces, what  is  observed  ?  Where  there  is 
the  least  room  for  it,  of  what  is  he  al- 
ways full  ?  What,  in  part,  apologizes 
for  this  ?  But  even  after  all  these  al- 
lowances are  made,  what  impression 
do  his  works  leave  upon  the  mind  ? 
What  evidence  have  we  that  Cicero's 
defecis  were  not  unobserved  by  hi* 
contemporaries?    Of  these    censures. 


LECT.  XXVI.] 


QUESTIONS. 


284  o 


what  is  observed  ?  What  was  the 
cause  of  the  aggravation  of  his  delects  ? 
Of  what  were  the  former  the  patrons  ? 
In  several  of  his  rhetorical  works, 
what  does  Cicero,  in  his  turn,  do? 
What  is  given  in  the  tenth  chapter  of 
the  last  book  of  Quintilian's  Institu- 
tions ?  On  whose  side  does  Quintilian 
himself  declare  ?  With  what  observa- 
tion does  he  conclude  his  remarks? 
Why  is  a  comparison  between  Cicero 
and  Demosthenes  in  many  respects  ob- 
vious and  easy  ?  What  are  their  diffe- 
rent characters ;  and  in  them  respec- 
tively, what  do  we  find  ?  To  account 
for  this  difference,  without  any  preju- 
dice to  Cicero,  what  has  been  said  ? 
Why  is  this  not  satisfactory  ?  By  ob- 
serving what,  shall  we,  perhaps,  come 
nearer  to  the  truth  ?  How  is  this  illus- 
trated ?  What  circumstance  operates 
against  Demosthenes  ?  As  we  read  Ci- 
cero with  more  ease,  what  is  the  con- 
sequence ;  and  what  remark  follows  ? 
Notwithstanding  this  advantage,  of 
what  opinion  is  our  author  ?  What  ef- 
fect would  the  Philippics  of  Demosthe- 
nes produce  on  a  British  assembly? 
What  would  render  their  effect  infalli- 
ble over  any  modern  assembly  ?  What 
does  our  author  here  question  ;  and 
what  remark  follows  ?  On  this  subject, 
what  was  the  opinion  of  David  Hume? 
In  favour  of  whom  do  the  French  cri- 
tics decide  ?  Of  P.  Rapin,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  For  the  preference  which  he 
gives  to  Cicero,  what  reasons  does  he 
assign ;  and  why  ?  How  does  he  sup- 
port this  araaunent  ?  Why  can  nothing 
be  more  childish  than  this  ?  Of  one  of 
the  French  critics,  what  is  observed ; 
and  who  is  this?  In  what  writings 
does  he  give  this  judgment;  and  of 
them,  what  is  observed  ?  Of  the  reign 
of  eloquence  among  the  Romans,  what 
13  observed  ?  When  did  it  expire ;  and 
why?  Under  their  government,  what 
was  it  natural  to  expect?  What  con- 
tinued to  prevail ;  but  for  what  was 
there  no  longer  any  place  ?  By  whom 
is  this  change  beautifully  described; 
and  what  overwhelmed  all?  What 
was  now  become  a  desert ;  and  what 
observation  follows?  How  is  this  illus- 
trated? Where  was  the  corruption  of 
eloquence  completed  ?  What,  were 
made  the  themes  of  declamation;  and 
what  were  brought  into  vogue  ?  What 
says  Petronius  Arbiter  of  the  declaim- 
ers  of  his  time  ■  and  what   remark  fol- 


lows ?  In  whose  writings  does  this  cor- 
rupt manner  begin  to  appear;  and 
where,  also,  dees  it  show  itself?  Though 
the  author  was  a  man  of  genius,  yet  m 
what  is  it  deficient,  and  what  do  we 
see  throughout  the  whole  of  it  ? 

In  the  decline  of  the  Roman  empire, 
what  gave  rise  to  a  new  species  of 
eloquence ;  and  in  what  did  it  appear? 
Among  the  Latin  fathers,  who  are  the 
most  remarkable  for  purity  of  style  ; 
and  in  a  late  age,  of  the  famous  Augus- 
tine, what  is  observed?  But,  from 
what  does  it  appear  that  none  of  the 
fathers  afford  any  just  models  of  elo- 
quence? Among  the  Greek  fathers, 
who  was  the  most  distinguished ;  and 
of  him,  what  is  observed  ?  To  what 
does  our  author  now  pass  ;  and  why  ? 
Here,  what  must  be  confessed  ?  Of  it. 
what  is  further  observed ;  and  notwith- 
standing what  ?  How  is  this  accounted 
for  ?  In  what  two  countries  might  we 
expect  to  find  most  of  the  spirit  of  elo- 
quence ?  Why  in  France  ;  and  why  in 
Great  Britain  ?  Yet  what  follows  ?  Oj 
the  names  of  Demosthenes  and  Cicero, 
what  is  here  observed  ?  What  seems 
particularly  surprising ;  and  why  ?  On 
this  subject,  what  says  Mr.  Hume  ? 
Notwithstanding  this  advantage,  what 
must  be  confessed?  Of  our  philoso- 
phers, of  our  men  of  erudition,  and  of 
our  historians  and  poets,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  Of  our  orators,  what  is  ob- 
served ;  and  in  every  period,  what 
have  we  had  ?  Of  our  pleaders  at  the 
bar,  and  of  their  pleadings,  what  is  ob- 
served? In  this  respect,  how  do  the 
French  differ  from  us?  Of  the  British 
divines  in  the  pulpit,  what  is  observed  ? 
How  is  this  remark  illustrated?  Of  the 
art  of  preaching  among  us,  what  is  ob- 
served; and  of  this,  what  proof  is 
given?  What,  in  general,  is  the  cha- 
racteristical  difference  between  the 
state  of  eloquence  in  France  and  in  Great 
Britain  ?  In  Great  Britain,  how  have 
we  taken  up  eloquence  ;  and  what  is 
the  consequence  ?  In  France,  with 
what  is  the  style  of  their  orators  orna- 
mented; and  in  what  manner  is  the'r 
discourse  carried  on  ?  Of  the  composi- 
tion, what  is  observed  ?  To  what  is  this 
defect  owing?  Hence,  of  the  pulpit 
what  is  observed  ?  What  is,  also,  sair 
of  the  members  of  the  French  acade 
my?  What  was  before  observed' 
TheirY;  was  of  what  kind  ;  and  by  n, 
what  effect  did  they  endeavour  to  pn- 


284  b 


QUESTIONS. 


[LECT.   XXVII. 


duce?  And  to  this  vehemence  of 
thought,  what  was  suited?  What  do 
ive,  on  this  subject,  learn  from  Cicero  ; 
and  what  is  said  of  them  ?  Of  modern 
eloquence,  what  is  observed ;  and  in 
Great  Britain,  especially,  to  what  has  it 
confined  itself?  Of  what  species  is  it ; 
and  at  what  does  it  aim  ?  What  is  the 
first  reason  assigned  for  the  limited  and 
humble  efforts  of  modern  eloquence  ? 
What  cannot  be  doubted  ?  In  what 
proportion  has  philosophy  made  pro- 
cress?  What,  in  Great  Britain,  has 
been  cultivated  and  introduced  into 
every  subject  ?  Hence,  what  follows  ? 
Of  our  public  speakers,  what  is  obser- 
ved? What  is  also  likely;  and  why? 
Besides  these  national  considerations, 
to  what  must  we,  in  the  next  place, 
attend?  Of  the  parliament  of  Great 
Britain,  as  a  field  for  public  speaking, 
what  is  observed  ?  What  has  prevent- 
ed the  influence  of  eloquence  there? 
Of  the  power  of  speaking,  what  is  ob- 
served; and  what  follows?  What  are 
our  disadvantages  in  comparison  with 
the  ancients,  at  the  bar  ?  Here  was  an 
ample  field  for  what  ?  How  does  it  ap- 
pear that  among  the  moderns,  the  case 
is  quite  different  ?    Of  the  bounds  of 


eloquence  at  the  bar,  what  is  observed'! 
With  regard  to  the  pulpit,  what  haa 
been  a  great  disadvantage?  What 
may  this  have  introduced;  but  what 
follows?  To  whit  does  it  lead?  What 
other  circumstance  has  been  unfortu- 
nate ?  To  what  did  the  odium  of  these 
sects  drive  the  established  church  ? 
Hence,  what  consequence  has  resulted? 
Thus,  what  has  been  given?  In  it, 
what  change  has  taken  place  ?  Yet,  in 
the  region  which  it  now  occupies,  what 
does  it  admit;  and  what  remark  fol- 
lows ?  In  using  the  ancient  models  of 
eloquence,  to  what  must  we  have  some 
regard  ? 


ANALYSTS. 

1.  The  origin  of  Reman  eloquence. 

a.  Cicero. 

a.  His  excellences  and  his  defects. 

b.  Compared  with  Demosthenes. 

b.  Eloquence  among-  the  Runians  of  short 
continuance. 

a.  The  schools  of  the  declaimcrs. 

c.  A  new  species  of  eloquence. 

2.  Modern  eloquence. 

a.  The  eloquence  of  Great  Britain. 

b.  The  eloquence  of  France. 

c.  Reasons  for  the  limitedness  of  modern 
eloquence. 

a.  The  bar. 

b.  The  pulpit. 


LECTURE    XXVII. 


DIFFERENT  KINDS  OF  PUBLIC  SPEAKING.— ELO- 
QUENCE OF  POPULAR  ASSEMBLIES.— EX- 
TRACTS FROM  DEMOSTHENES. 

After  the  preliminary  views  which  have  been  given  of  the  nature 
ni  eloquence  in  general,  and  of  the  state  in  which  it  has  subsisted  in 
different  ages  and  countries,  I  am  now  to  enter  on  the  consideration 
of  the  different  kinds  of  public  speaking,  the  distinguishing  charac- 
ters of  each,  and  the  rules  which  relate  to  them.  The  ancients  di- 
vided all  orations  into  three  kinds  ;  the  demonstrative,  the  delibe- 
rative, and  the  judicial.  The  scope  of  the  demonstrative  Avas  to 
praise  or  to  blame  ;  that  of  the  deliberative,  to  advise  or  to  dissuade  ; 
that  of  the  judicial,  to  accuse  or  to  defend.  The  chief  subjects  of 
demonstrative  eloquence,  were  panegyrics,  invectives,  gratulatory 
and  funeral  orations.  The  deliberative  was  employed  in  matters  ol 
public  concern,  agitated  in  the  senate,  or  before  the  assemblies  of  the 
people.  The  judicial  is  the  same  with  the  eloquence  of  the  bar, 
employed  in  addressing  judges,  who  have  power  to  absolve  or  to 
condemn.  This  division  runs  through  all  the  ancient  treatises  on 
rhetoric  ;  and  is  followed  by  the  moderns,  who  copy  them.  It  is  a 
division  not  inartificial ;  and  comprehends  most,  or  all,  of  the  mat- 
ters which  can  be  the  subject  of  public  discourse.  It  will,  however, 
suit  our  purpose  better,  and  be  found,  I  imagine,  more  useful  to  fol- 


„ect.  xxvn.]  PUBLIC  SPEAKING.  285 

low  that  division  which  the  trai  n  of  modern  speaking  naturally  points 
out  to  us,  taken  from  the  three  great  scenes  of  eloquence,  popular 
assemblies,  the  bar,  and  the  pulpit;  each  of  which  has  a  distinct  cha- 
racter that,  particularly  suits  it.  This  division  coincides  in  part  with 
the  ancient  one.  The  eloquence  of  the  bar  is  precisely  the  same 
with  what  the  ancients  called  the  judicial.  The  eloquence  of  popu- 
lar assemblies,  though  mostly  of  what  they  term  the  deliberative  spe- 
cies, yet  admits  also  of  the  demonstrative.  The  eloquence  of  the 
pulpit  is  altogether  of  a  distinct  nature,  and  cannot  be  properly  re- 
duced under  any  of  the  heads  of  the  ancient  rhetoricians. 

To  all  the  three,  pulpit,  bar,  and  popular  assemblies,  belong,  in 
common,  the  rules  concerning  the  conduct  of  a  discourse  in  all  its 
parts.  Of  these  rules  I  purpose  afterwards  to  treat  at  large.  But 
before  proceeding  to  them,  I  intend  to  show,  first,  what  is  peculiar  to 
each  of  these  three  kinds  of  oratory,  in  their  spirit,  character,  or 
manner.  For  every  species  of  public  speaking  has  a  manner  or 
character  peculiarly  suited  to  it ;  of  which  it  is  highly  material  to 
have  a  just  idea,  in  order  to  direct  the  application  of  general  rules. 
The  eloquence  of  a  lawyer  is  fundamentally  different  from  that  of  a 
divine,  or  a  speaker  in  parliament :  and  to  have  a  precise  and  proper 
idea  of  the  distinguishing  character  which  any  kind  of  public  speak- 
ing requires,  is  the  foundation  of  what  is  called  a  just  taste  in  that 
kind  of  speaking. 

Laying  aside  any  question  concerning  the  pre-eminence  in  point 
of  rank,  which  is  due  to  any  one  of  the  three  kinds  before  mention- 
ed, I  shall  begin  with  that  Which  tends  to  throw  most  light  upon  the 
rest,  viz.  the  eloquence  of  popular  assemblies.  The  most  august 
theatre  for  this  kind  of  eloquence,  to  be  found  in  any  nation  of  Eu 
rope,  is,  beyond  doubt,  the  parliament  of  Great  Britain.  In  meet 
ings,too,  of  less  dignity,  it  may  display  itself.  Wherever  there  is  a 
popular  court,  or  wherever  any  number  of  men  are  assembled  for  de- 
bate or  consultation,  there,  in  different  forms,  this  species  of  eloquence 
may  take  place. 

Its  object  is,  or  ought  always  to  be,  persuasion.  There  must  be 
some  end  proposed  ;  some  point,  most  commonly  of  public  utility 
or  good,  in  favour  of  which  we  seek  to  determine  the  hearers.  Now, 
in  all  attempts  to  persuade  men,  we  must  proceed  upon  this  principle, 
that  it  is  necessary  to  convince  their  understanding.  Nothing  can  be 
more  erroneous  than  to  imagine,  that,  because  speeches  to  popular 
assemblies  admit  more  of  a  declamatory  style  than  some  other  dis- 
courses, they  therefore  stand  less  in  need  of  being  supported  by  sound 
reasoning.  When  modelled  upon  this  false  idea,  they  may  have  the 
show,  but  never  can  produce  the  effect,  of  real  eloquence.  Even  the 
show  of  eloquence  which  they  make,  will  please  only  the  trifling  and 
superficial.  For,  with  all  tolerable  judges,  indeed  almost  with  all  men, 
mere  declamation  soon  becomes  insipid.  Of  whatever  rank  the  hear- 
er:? be,  a  speaker  is  never  to  presume,  that  by  a  frothy  and  ostentatious 
harangue,  without  solid  sense  and  argument,  he  can  either  make  im- 
pression on  them,  or  acquire  fame  to  himself.  It  is,  at  least,  a  dan- 
gerous experiment;  for,  where  such  an  artifice  succeeds  once,  it  will 


286  ELOQUENCE  OF  [lect.xxvii 

Tail  {.en  times.  Even  the  common  people  are  better  judges  of  argu 
ment  and  good  sense,  than  we  sometimes  think  them;  and  upon  any 
question  of  business,  a  plain  man,  who  speaks  to  the  point  without 
art,  will  generally  prevail  over  the  most  artful  speaker,  who  deals 
in  flowers  and  ornament,  rather  than  in  reasoning.  Much  more, 
when  public  speakers  address  themselves  to  any  assembly  where 
there  are  persons  of  education  and  improved  understanding,  they 
ought  to  be  careful  not  to  trifle  with  their  hearers 

Let  it  be  ever  kept  in  view,  that  the  foundation  of  all  that  can  be 
called  eloquence,  is  good  sense,  and  solid  thought.  As  popular  as  the 
orations  of  Demosthenes  were,  spoken  to  all  the  citizens  of  Athens, 
every  one  who  looks  into  them,  must  see  how  fraught  they  are  with 
argument;  and  how  important  it  appeared  to  him,  to  convince  the 
understanding,  in  order  to  persuade,  or  to  work  on  the  principles  of 
action.  Hence  their  influence  in  his  own  time  ;  hence  their  fame  at 
this  day.  Such  a  pattern  as  this,  public  speakers  ought  to  set  before 
them  for  imitation,  rather  than  follow  the  track  of  those  loose  and 
frothy  declaimers,  who  have  brought  discredit  on  eloquence.  Let  it 
be  their  first  study,  in  addressing  any  popular  assembly  to  be  previous- 
ly masters  of  the  business  on  which  they  are  to  speak;  to  be  well 
provided  with  matter  and  argument;  and  to  rest  upon  these  the  chief 
stress.  This  will  always  give  to  their  discourse  an  air  of  manliness 
and  strength,  which  is  a  powerful  instrument  of  persuasion.  Orna- 
ment, if  they  have  genius  for  it,  will  follow  of  course:  at  any  rate,  it 
demands  only  their  secondary  study:  '  Cura  sit  verborum;  solicitu- 
do  rerum.'  'To  your  expression  be  attentive;  but  about  your  matter 
be  solicitous,'  is  an  advice  of  Quintilian,  which  cannot  be  too  often 
recollected  by  all  who  study  oratory. 

In  the  next  place,  in  order  to  be  persuasive  speakers  in  .a  popular 
assembly,  it  is,  in  my  opinion,  a  capital  rule, that  we  be  ourselves  per- 
suaded of  whatever  we  recommend  to  others.  Never,  when  it  can 
be  avoided,  ought  we  to  espouse  any  side  of  the  argument,  but  what 
we  believe  to  be  the  true  and  the  right  one.  Seldom  or  never  will 
a  man  be  eloquent,  but  when  he  is  in  earnest,  and  uttering  his  own 
sentiments.  They  are  only  the  '  verse  voces  ab  imo  pectore,'  the  un 
assumed  language  of  the  heart  or  head,  that  carry  the  force  of  con- 
viction. In  a  former  lecture,  when  entering  on  this  subject,  I  observ- 
ed, that  all  high  eloquence  must  be  the  offspring  of  passion,  or  warm 
emotion.  It  is  this  which  makes  every  man  persuasive ;  and  gives  a 
force  to  his  genius,  which  it  possesses  at  no  other  time.  Under  what 
disadvantage  then  is  he  placed,  who,  not  feeling  what  he  utters,  must 
counterfeit  a  warmth  to  which  he  is  a  stranger. 

I  know,  that  young  people,  on  purpose  to  train  themselves  to  the 
art  of  speaking,  imagine  it  useful  to  adopt  that  side  of  the  question 
under  debate,  which,  to  themselves,  appears  the  weakest,  and  to  try 
what  figure  they  can  make  upon  it.  But,  I  am  afraid,  this  is  not  the 
most  improving  education  for  public  speaking;  and  that  it  tends  to 
form  them  to  a  habit  of  flimsy  and  trivial  discourse.  Such  a  liberty 
they  should,  at  no  time,  allow  themselves,  unless  in  meetings  where 
no  real  business  is  carried  on,  but  where  declamation  and  improve- 


lect.xxvii.]         POPULAR  ASSEMBLIES.  287 

men!  of  speech  is  the  sole  aim.  Nor  even  in  such  meetings,  would  I 
recommend  it  as  the  most  useful  exercise.  They  will  improve  them- 
selves to  more  advantage,  and  acquit  themselves  with  more  honour, 
by  choosing  always  that  side  of  the  debate  to  which,  in  their  own 
judgment,  they  are  most  inclined,  and  supporting  it  by  what  seems  to 
themselves  most  solid  and  persuasive.  They  will  acquire  the  habit 
of  reasoning  closely,  and  expressing  themselves  with  warmth  and 
force,  much  more  when  they  are  adhering  to  their  own  sentiments, 
than  when  they  are  speaking  in  contradiction  to  them.  In  assem- 
blies where  any  real  business  is  carried  on,  whether  that  business  be 
of  much  importance  or  not,  it  is  always  of  dangerous  consequence 
for  young  practitioners  to  make  trial  of  this  sort  of  play  of  speech. 
It  may  fix  an  imputation  on  their  characters  before  they  are  aware  : 
and  what  they  intended  merely  as  amusement,  may  be  turned  to  the 
discredit,  either  of  their  principles  or  their  understanding. 

Debate  in  popular  courts,  seldom  allows  the  speaker  that  full  and 
accurate  preparation  beforehand,  which  the  pulpit  always,  and  the 
bar  sometimes,  admits.  The  arguments  must  be  suited  to  the 
course  which  the  debate  takes;  and  as  no  man  can  exactly  foresee 
this,  one  who  tru«ts  to  a  set  speech,  composed  in  his  closet,  will. 
on  many  occasions,  be  thrown  out  of  the  ground  which  he  had 
taken.  He  will  find  it  pre-occupied  by  others,  or  his  reasonings 
superseded  by  some  new  turn  of  the  business ;  and,  if  he  ventures 
to  use  his  prepared  speech,  it  will  be  frequently  at  the  hazard  of 
making  an  awkward  figure.  There  is  a  general  prejudice  with  us. 
and  not  wholly  an  unjust  one,  against  set  speeches  in  public  meet- 
ings. The  only  occasion,  when  they  have  any  propriety,  is,  at 
the  opening  of  a  debate,  wh^n  the  speaker  has  it  in  his  power  to 
choose  his  field.  But  as  the  debate  advances,  and  parties  warm, 
discourses  of  this  kind  become  more  unsuitable.  They  want  the 
native  air;  the  appearance  of  being  suggested  by  the  business  that 
is  going  on ;  study  and  ostentation  are  apt  to  be  visible ;  and,  of 
course,  though  applauded  as  elegant,  they  are  seldom  so  persuasive 
as  more  free  and  unconstrained  discourses. 

This,  however,  does  not  by  any  means  conclude  against  pre- 
meditation of  what  we  are  to  say ;  the  neglect  of  which,  and  the 
trusting  wholly  to  extemporaneous  efforts,  will  unavoidably  pro- 
duce the  habit  of  speaking  in  a  loose  and  undigested  manner. 
But  the  premeditation  which  is  of  most  advantage,  in  the  case 
v/hich  we  now  consider,  is  of  the  subject  or  argument  in  general, 
rather  than  of  nice  composition  in  any  particular  branch  of  it. 
With  regard  to  the  matter,  we  cannot  be  too  accurate  in  our  pre- 
paration, so  as  to  be  fully  masters  of  the  business  under  considera- 
tion; but  with  regard  to  words  and  expression,  it  is  very  possible  sc 
far  to  over  do,  as  to  render  our  speech  stiff  and  precise.  Indeed. 
t.i\\  once  persons  acquire  that  firmness,  that  presence  of  mind,  and 
command  of  expression,  in  a  public  meeting,  which  nothing  but 
habit  and  practice  can  bestow,  it  may  be  proper  for  a  young  speak- 
er to  commit  to  memory  the  whole  of  what  he  is  to  say.     But 


288  ELOQUENCE  OF  [lect.xxvii. 

after  some  performances  of  this  kind  shall  have  given  him  boldness,  he 
will  find  it  the  better  method  not  to  confine  himself  so  strictly : 
but  only  to  write,  beforehand,  some  sentences  with  which  he  in- 
tends to  set  out,  in  order  to  put  himself  fairly  in  the  train;  and, 
for  the  rest,  to  set  down  short  notes  of  the  topics,  or  principal 
thoughts  upon  which  he  is  to  insist,  in  their  order,  leaving  the 
words  to  be  suggested  by  the  warmth  cf  discourse.  Such  short 
notes  of  the  substance  of  the  discourse,  will  be  found  of  consider- 
able service,  to  those,  especially,  who  are  beginning  to  speak  in 
public.  They  will  accustom  them  to  some  degree  of  accuracy, 
which,  if  they  speak  frequently,  they  are  in  danger  too  soon  of  los- 
ing. They  will  even  accustom  them  to  think  more  closely  on  the 
subject  in  question ;  and  will  assist  them  greatly  in  arranging  their 
thoughts  with  method  and  order. 

This  leads  me  next  to  observe,  that  in  all  kinds  of  public  speak- 
ing, nothing  is  of  greater  consequence  than  a  proper  and  cleai 
method.  I  mean  not  that  formal  method  of  laying  down  heads 
and  subdivisions,  which  is  commonly  practised  in  the  pulpit;  and 
which,  in  popular  assemblies,  unless  the  speaker  be  a  man  a' 
great  authority  and  character,  and  the  subject  of  great  importance, 
and  the  preparation  too  very  accurate,  is  rather  in  hazard  of  dis 
gusting  the  hearers;  such  an  introduction  is  presenting  always  the 
melancholy  prospect  of  a  long  discourse.  But  though  the  method  be 
not  laid  down  in  form,  no  discourse,  of  any  length,  should  be 
without  method;  that  is,  every  thing  should  be  found  in  its  proper 
place.  Every  one  who  speaks,  will  find  it  of  the  greatest  advan- 
tage to  himself  to  have  previously  arranged  his  thoughts,  and  classed 
under  proper  heads,  in  his  own  mind,  what  he  is  to  deliver.  This 
will  assist  his  memory,  and  carry  him  through  his  discourse  with 
out  that  confusion  to  which  one  is  every  moment  subject  who  has 
fixed  no  distinct  plan  of  what  he  is  to  say.  And  with  respect  to  the 
hearers,  order  in  discourse  is  absolutely  necessary  for  making 
any  proper  impression.  It  adds  both  force  and  light  to  what  is  said. 
It  makes  them  accompany  the  speaker  easily  and  readily,  as  he  goes 
along;  and  makes  them  feel  the  full  effect  of  every  argument  which 
he  employs.  Few  things,  therefore,  deserve  more  to  be  attended 
to, than  distinct  arrangement ;  for  eloquence,  however  great,  can  ne- 
ver produce  entire  conviction  without  it.  Of  the  rules  of  method, 
and  the  proper  distribution  of  the  several  parts  of  a  discourse,  I  an 
hereafter  to  treat. 

Let  us  now  consider  the  style  and  expression  suited  to  the  elo- 
quence of  popular  assemblies.  Beyond  doubt,  these  give  scope 
for  the  most  animated  manner  of  public  speaking.  The  very  aspect 
of  a  large  assembly,  engaged  in  some  debate  of  moment,  and  atten- 
tive to  the  discourse  of  one  m?.n,  is  sufficient  to  inspire  that  man  with 
such  elevation  and  warmth,  as  both  gives  rise  to  strong  impressions, 
and  gives  them  propriety.  Passion  easily  rises  in  a  great  assembly, 
where  the  movements  are  communicated  by  mutual  sympathy 
between  the  orator  and  the  audience.  Those  bold  figures,  o» 
which  I  treated  formerlv  as  the  native  language  of  passion,  have 


lect.  xxvn.]         POPULAR  ASSEMBLIES.  289 

then  their  proper  place.  That  ardour  of  speech,  that  vehemence 
and  glow  of  sen.iment,  which  arise  from  a  mind  animated  and  in- 
spired by  some  great  and  public  object,  form  the  peculiar  charac- 
teristics of  popular  eloquence,  in  its  highest  degree  of  perfection. 

The  liberty,  however,  which  we  are  now  giving  of  the  strong  and 
passionate  manner  to  this  kind  of  oratory,  must  be  always  understood 
with  certain  limitations  and  restraints,  which,  it  will  be  necessary  to 
point  out  distinctly,  in  order  to  guard  against  dangerous  mistakes 
on  this  subject. 

As,  first,  the  warmth  which  we  express  must  be  suited  to  the  occa- 
sion and  the  subject ;  for  nothing  can  be  more  preposterous,  than  an 
attempt  to  introduce  great  vehemence  into  a  subject,  which  is  either 
of  slight  importance,  or  which,  by  its  nature,  requires  to  be  treated  of 
calmly.  A  temperate  tone  of  speech,  is  that  for  which  there  is  most 
frequent  occasion ;  and  he  who  is,  on  every  subject,  passionate  and  ve- 
hement, will  be  considered  as  a  blusterer,  and  meet  with  little  regard. 
In  the  second  place,  we  must  take  care  never  to  counterfeit 
warmth  without  feeling  it.  This  always  betrays  persons  into  an  un- 
natural manner,  which  exposes  them  to  ridicule.  For,  as  I  have 
often  suggested,  to  support  the  appearance,  without  the  real  feeling 
of  passion,  is  one  of  the  most  difficult  things  in  nature.  The  disguise 
can  almost  never  be  so  perfect,  as  not  to  be  discovered.  The  heart  can 
only  answer  to  the  heart.  The  great  rule  here,  as  indeed  in  every 
other  case,  is,  to  follow  nature ;  never  to  attempt  a  strain  of  elo- 
quence which  is  not  seconded  by  our  own  genius.  One  may  be  a 
speaker,  both  of  much  reputation  and  much  influence,  in  the  calm 
argumentative  manner.  To  attain  the  pathetic,  and  the  sublime  of 
oratory,  requires  those  strong  sensibilities  of  mind,  and  that  high 
power  of  expression,  which  are  given  to  few. 

In  the  third  place,  eye*   when" the  subject  justifies  the  vehement 
manner,  and  when  genius  prompts  it ;  when  warmth  is  felt,  not 
counterfeited;  we  must  still  set  a  guard  en  ourselves,   not  to  al- 
low impetuosity  to  transport  us  too  far.     Without  emotion  in  the 
speaker,  eloquence,  as  was  before  observed,  will  never  produce  its 
highest  effects;  but  at  the  same  time,  if  the  speaker  lose  command 
of  himself,  he  will  soon  lose  command  of  his  audience  too.     He 
must  never  kindle  too  soon:  he  must  begin  with  moderation;  and 
study  to  carry  his  hearers  along  with  him,  as  he  warms  in  the  pro- 
gress of  his  discourse.     For,  if  he  runs  before  in  the  course  of  pas- 
sion, and  leaves  them  behind ;  if  they  are  not  tuned,  if  we  may 
speak  so,  in  unison  to  him,  the  discord  will  presently  be  felt,  and  be 
very  grating.     Let  a  speaker  have  ever  so  good  reason  to  be  ani- 
mated and  fired  by  his  subject,  it  is  always  expected  of  him,  that 
\he  awe  and  regard  due  to  his  audience  should  lay  a  decent  restraint 
upon  his  warmth,  and  prevent  it  from  carrying  him  beyond  certain 
bounds.     If,  when  most  heated  by  the  subject,  he  can  be  so  far  mas- 
ter of  himself  as  to  preserve  close  attention  to  argument,  and  even 
to  some  degree  of  correct  expression,  this  self-command,  this  exer- 
«ion  of  reason,  in  the  midst  of  passion,  has  a  wonderful  effect  both 
2T  37 


290  ELOQUENCE  OF  [lect.  xxvii 

to  p  »s?e,  and  to  persuade.  It  is  indeed  the  master-piece,  the  high 
est  attainment  of  eloquence;  uniting  the  strength  of  reason,  with 
the  vehemence  of  passion ;  affording  all  the  advantages  of  passion 
for  the  purpose  of  persuasion,  without  the  confusion  and  disorder 
which  are  apt  to  accompany  it. 

In  the  fourth  place,  in  the  highest  and  most  animated  strain  oi 
popular  speaking,  we  must  always  preserve  regard  to  what  the  pub- 
lic ear  will  bear.  This  direction  I  give,  in  order  to  guard  against 
an  injudicious  imitation  of  ancient  orators,  who,  both  in  their  pro- 
nunciation and  gesture,  and  in  their  figures  of  expression,  used 
a  bolder  manner  than  what  the  greater  coolness  of  modern  taste 
will  readily  suffer.  This  may,  perhaps,  as  I  formerly  observed, 
be  a  disadvantage  to  modern  eloquence.  It  is  no  reason  why  we 
should  be  too  severe  in  checking  the  impulse  of  genius,  and  con 
tinue  always  creeping  on  the  ground;  but  it  is  a  reason,  how- 
ever, why  we  should  avoid  carrying  the  tone  of  declamation 
to  a  height  tnat  would  now  be  reckoned  extravagant.  Demos- 
thenes, to  justify  the  unsuccessful  action  of  Cheronaea,  calls  up  the 
manes  of  those  heroes  who  fell  in  the  battle  of  Marathon  and  Platsea, 
and  swears  by  them,  that  their  fellow-citizens  had  done  well,  in 
their  endeavours  to  support  the  same  cause.  Cicero,  in  his  ora- 
tion for  Milo,  implores  and  obtests  the  Alban  hills  and  groves,  and 
makes  a  long  address  to  them:  and  both  passages,  in  these  ora- 
tors, have  a  fine  effect.*  But  how  few  modern  orators  could  ven- 
ture on  such  apostrophes?  and  what  a  power  of  genius  would  it  re- 
quire to  give  su»h  figures  now  their  proper  grace,  or  make  them 
produce  a  due  effect  upon  the  hearers? 

In  the  fifth  and  last  place,  in  all  kinds  of  public  speaking,  but 
especially  in  popular  assemblies,  it  is  a  capital  rule  to  attend  to  all 
the  decorums  of  time,  place,  and  character.  No  warmth  of  elo- 
quence can  atone  for  the  neglect  of  these.  That  vehemence, 
which  is  becoming  in  a  person  of  character  and  authority,  may  be 
unsuitable  to  the  modesty  expected  from  a  young  speaker.  That 
sportive  and  witty  manner  which  may  suit  one  subject  and  one  as- 
sembly's altogether  out  of  place  in  a  grave  cause,  and  a  solemn 
meeting.  '  Caput  artis  est,'  says  Quintilian, 'decere.'  'The  first 
principle  of  art,  is  to  observe  decorum.'  No  one  should  ever  rise 
to  speak  in  public,  without  forming  to  himself  a  just  and  strict  idea 
of  what  suits  his  own  age  and  character;  what  suits  the  subject, 

■  *  The  passage  in  Cicero  is  very  beautifuljand  adorned  with  the  highest  colouring 
of  his  eloquence.  '  Non  est  humano  consilio,  ne  mediocri  quidem,  iudices.  de- 
uruni  imniortalium  cura,  res  ilia  perfecta.  Religiones,  mehercule,  ipsa  areeque, 
cum  ilium  belluam  cadere  viderunt,  commovisse  se  videntur,  et  jus  in  illo  suum 
retinuisse.  Vos  rnim  jam  Albani  tumuli,  atque  luci,  vos  inquam  imploro  atque 
obtestor,  vosque  Albanorum  obrutae  aras,  sacrorum  populi  Romani  socias  et  aequalcs, 
quas  ille  pra;ceps  amentia,  cassis  prostratisque,  sanctissimis  lucis,  substruc- 
tionum  insanis  molibus  oppresserat ;  vestrae  turn  ara;,  vestraj  religiones  vigue- 
runt,  vestra  vis  valuit,  quam  ille  omni  scelere  pclluerat.  Tuque  ex  tuo  edito 
aionte  Latiali,  sancte  Jupiter,  cujus  ille  lacus,  nemora,  finesque,  saepe  omni  ne» 
fario  stupro,  scelere  macularat,  aliquando  ad  eum  punienduin,  oculos  aperuisti, 
vobis  illae,  vobis  vestr.  »o  c  mspectu,  sera,  sed  justs  tamen,  et  debita  paena3  solutaa  sunt 


lect.  xxvn.]  POPULAR  ASSEMBLIES.  291 

the  hearers,  the  place,  the  occasion :  and  adjusting  the  whole  trair 
and  manner  of  his  speaking  on  this  idea.  All  the  ancients  insist 
much  on  this.  Consult  the  first  chapter  of  the  eleventh  book  of 
Quintilian,  which  is  employed  wholly  on  this  point,  and  is  full  ot 
good  sense.  Cicero's  admonitions,  in  his  Orator  ad  Brutum,  I 
shall  give  in  his  own  words,  which  should  never  be  forgotten  by  any 
who  speak  in  public.  '  Est  eloquentiae,  sicut  "eliquarum  rerum, 
fundamentum,  sapientia;  ux  enim  in  vita,  sic  in  oratione  nihil  est 
difficillius  quam  quod  deceat  videre  ;  hujus  ignoratione  ssepissime 
peccatur ;  non  enim  omnis  fortuna,  non  omnis  auctoritas,  non  omnis 
astas,  nee  vero  locus,  aut  tempus,  aut  auditor  omnis,  eodem  aut  ver- 
borum  genere  tractandus  est,  aut  cententiarum.  Semperque  in 
omni  parte  orationis,  ut  vitas,  quid  deceat  considerandum ;  quod  et 
in  re  de  qua  agitur  positum  est,  et  in  personis  et  eorum  qui  dicunt,  et 
eorum  qui  audiunt.'*  So  much  for  the  considerations  that  require 
to  be  attended  to,  with  respect  to  the  vehemence  and  warmth  *hich 
is  allowed  in  popular  eloquence. 

The  current  of  style  should  in  general  be  full,  free,  and  xMturaL 
Quaint  and  artificial  expressions  are  out  of  place  here;  and  always 
derogate  from  persuasion.  It  is  a  strong  and  manly  style  which 
should  chiefly  be  studied ;  and  metaphorical  language,  when  properly 
introduced,  produces  often  a  happy  effect.  When  the  metaphors  are 
warm,  glowing,  and  descriptive,  some  inaccuracy  in  them  will  be 
overlooked,  which,  in  a  written  composition,  would  be  remarked 
and  censured.  Amidst  the  torrent  of  declamation,  the  strength  of 
the  figure  makes  impression  ;  the  inaccuracy  of  it  escapes. 

With  regard  to  the  degree  of  conciseness  or  diffuseness  suited  to 
popular  eloquence,  it  is  not  easy  to  fix  any  exact  bounds.  I  know 
that  it  is  common  to  recommend  a  diffuse  manner  as  the  most  pro 
per.  1  am  inclined,  however,  to  think,  that  there  is  danger  of  er- 
ring in  this  respect ;  and  that  by  indulging  too  much  in  the  diffuse 
style,  public  speakers  often  lose  more  in  point  of  strength,  than  they 
gain  by  the  fullness  of  their  illustration.  There  is  no  doubt,  that  in 
speaking  to  a  multitude,  we  must  not  speak  in  sentences  and  apo- 
i  hegms  :  care  must  be  taken  to  explain  and  to  inculcate ;  but  this  care 
may  be,  and  frequently  is,  carried  too  far.  We  ought  always  to 
remember, that  how  much  soever  we  may  be  pleased  with  hearing 
ourselves  speak,  every  audience  is  very  ready  to  bu  tired  ;  and  the 
moment  they  begin  to  be  tired,  all  our  eloquence  gcv-*j  for  nothing.  A 
loose  and  verbose  manner  never  fails  to  create  disgust ;  and,  on  most 
occasions,  we  had  better  run  the  risk  of  saying  too  little  than  too 
much.     Better  place  our  thought  in  one  strong  point  of  view,  and 

*  '  Good  sense  is  the  foundation  of  eloquence,  as  it  is  of  all  other  things  that  aix 
»Attable.  It  happens  in  oratory  exactly  as  it  does  i.f  life,  that  frequently  nothing 
is  more  difficult  than  to  discern  what  is  proper  au'J  becoming.  lr>  consequence  of 
mistaking  this,  the  grossest  faults  are  often  coirr  litied.  For  to  ..ae  different  de- 
grees of  rank,  fortune,  and  age  among  men,  to  s».K  the  varieties  of  time,  place,  and 
auditory,  the  same  style  of  language,  and  the  r.ssua  strain  of  thought,  cannot  agree. 
In  every  part  of  a  discourse,  just  as  in  every  pa/i  of  life,  we  must  attend  to  •"hat  is 
suitable  and  decent:  whether  that  be  dete^  mined  by  the  nature  of  the  subject  of 
which  we  treat,  or  by  the  characters  of  those  t/ho  speak,  or  of  those  who  hear  * 


232  EXTRACTS  FROM  [lect.  xxvii 

rest  it  there,  than  by  turning  it  into  every  light,  and  pouring  forth  a 
profusion  of  words  upon  it,  exhaust  the  attention  of  our  hearers, 
and  leave  them  fiat  and  languid. 

Of  pronunciation  and  delivery,  I  am  hereafter  to  treat  apart.  At 
present  it  is  sufficient  to  observe,  that  in  speaking  to  mixt  assemblies, 
the  best  manner  of  delivery  is  the  firm  and  the  determined.  An  arro- 
gant and  overbearing  manner  is  indeed  always  disagreeable:  and 
the  least  appearance  of  it  ought  to  be  shunned  :  but  there  is  a  cer- 
tain decisive  tone,  which  may  be  assumed  even  by  a  modest  man, 
who  is  thoroughly  persuaded  of  the  sentiments  he  utters;  and 
which  is  calculated  for  making  a  general  impression.  A  feeble  and 
hesitating  manner  bespeaks  always  some  distrust  of  a  man's  own 
opinion;  which  is,  by  no  means,  a  favourable  circumstance  for  his 
inducing  others  to  embrace  it. 

These  are  the  chief  thoughts  which  have  occurred  to  me  from 
reflection  and  observation,  concerning  the  peculiar  distinguishing 
characters  of  the  eloquence  proper  for  popular  assemblies.  The 
sum  of  what  has  been  said,  is  this:  the  end  of  popular  speaking  is 
persuasion;  and  this  must  be  founded  on  conviction.  Argument 
and  reasoning  must  be  the  basis,  if  we  would  be  speakers  of  busi- 
ness, and  not  mere  declaimers.  We  should  be  engaged  in  earnest 
on  the  side  which  we  espouse  ;  and  utter,  as  much  as  possible,  our 
own,  and  not  counterfeited  sentiments.  The  premeditation  should 
be  of  things,  rather  than  of  words.  Clear  order  and  method  should 
be  studied;  the  manner  and  expression  warm  and  animated;  though 
still,  in  the  midst  of  that  vehemence,  which  may  at  times  be  suita- 
ble, carried  on  under  the  proper  restraints  which  regard  to  the  audi- 
ence, and  to  the  decorum  of  character,  ought  to  lay  on  every  public 
speaker:  the  style  free  and  easy ;  strong  and  descriptive,  rather  than 
diffuse ;  and  the  delivery  determined  and  firm.  To  conclude  this 
head,  let  every  orator  remember,  that  the  impression  made  by  line 
and  artful  speaking  is  momentary;  that  made  by  argument  and  good 
sense,  is  solid  and  lasting. 

I  shall  now,  that  I  may  afford  an  exemplification  of  that  species 
of  oratory  of  which  I  have  been  treating,  insert  some  extracts  from 
Demosthenes.  Even  under  the  great  disadvantage  of  an  English 
translation,  they  will  exhibit  a  small  specimen  of  that  vigorous  and 
spirited  eloquence  which  I  have  so  often  praised.  I  shall  take  my 
extracts  mostly  from  the  Philippics  and  Olynthiacs,  which  were  en- 
tirely popular  orations  spoken  to  the  general  convention  of  the  citi- 
zens of  Athens:  and,  as  the  subject  of  both  the  Philippics,  and  the 
Olynthiacs,  is  the  same,  I  shall  not  confine  myself  to  one  oration, 
but  shall  join  together  passages  taken  from  two  or  three  of  them ; 
such  as  may  show  his  general  strain  of  speaking,  on  some  of  the 
chief  branches  of  the  subject.  The  subject  in  general  is,  to  rouse 
the  Athenians  to  guard  against  Philip  of  Macedon,  whose  growing 
power  and  crafty  policy  had  by  that  time  endangered,  and  soon 
after  overwhelmed  the  liberties  of  Greece.  The  Athenians  began 
to  be  alarmed;  but  their  deliberations  were  slow,  and  their  measures 
feeble;  several  of  their  favourite  orators   having  been  gained  by 


lect.  xxvn.]  DEMOSTHENES.  293 

Philip's  tribes  to  favour  his  cause.  In  this  critical  conjuncture  o* 
affairs,  Demosthenes  arose.  In  the  following  manner  he  begins  his 
first  Philippic;  which,  like  the  exordiums  of  all  his  orations,  is  sim- 
ple and  artless.* 

'Had  we  been  convened,  Athenians!  on  some  new  subject  of  de- 
bate, I  had  waited  till  most  of  your  usual  counsellors  had  declared 
their  opinions.  If  I  had  approved  of  what  was  proposed  by  them,  1 
should  have  continued  silent;  if  not,  I  should  then  have  attempted 
to  speak  my  sentiments.  But  since  those  very  points  on  which  these 
speakers  have  often  times  been  heard  already,  are  at  this  time  to  be 
considered;  though  I  have  arisen  first,  I  presume  I  may  expect  your 
pardon;  for  if  they,  on  former  occasions,  had  advised  the  proper 
measures,  you  would  not  have  found  it  needful  to  consult  at  present 

'  First  then,  Athenians  !  however  wretched  the  situation  of  our  af- 
fairs at  present  seems,  it  must  not  by  any  means  be  thought  despe- 
rate. What  I  am  now  going  to  advance  may  possibly  appear  a  para- 
dox; yet  it  is  a  certain  truth,  that  our  past  misfortunes  afford  a  cir- 
cumstance most  favourable  to  our  future  hopes.t  And  what  is  that? 
even  that  our  present  difficulties  are  owing  entirely  to  our  total 
indolence,  and  utter  disregard  of  our  own  interest.  For  were  we 
thus  situated,  in  spite  of  every  effort  which  our  duty  demanded, 
then  indeed  we  might  regard  our  fortunes  as  absolutely  desperate. 
But  now,  Philip  hath  only  conquered  your  supineness  and  inac- 
tivity ;  the  state  he  hath  not  conquered.  You  cannot  be  said  to  be 
defeated ;  your  force  hath  never  been  exerted. 

'  If  there  is  a  man  in  this  assembly  who  thinks  that  we  must  find  a 
formidable  enemy  in  Philip,  while  he  views  on  one  hand  the  nume- 
rous armies  which  surround  him,  and  on  the  other  the  weakness  of 
our  state, despoiled  of  so  much  of  its  dominions,  I  cannot  deny  that 
he  thinks  justly.  Yet  let  him  reflect  on  this :  there  was  a  time,  Athe- 
nians !  when  we  possessed  Pydna,  Patidcea,  and  Melthone,  and  all  that 
country  round :  when  many  of  the  states,  now  subjected  to  him, 
were  free  and  independent,  and  more  inclined  to  our  alliance  than  to 
his.  If  Philip,  at  that  time  weak  in  himself,  and  without  allies,  had 
desponded  of  success  against  you,  he  would  never  have  engaged  in 
those  enterprises  which  are  now  crowned  with  success,  nor  could 
have  raised  himself  to  that  pitch  of  grandeur  at  which  you  now  be- 
hold him.  But  he  knew  well  that  the  strongest  places  are  only  prizes 
laid  between  the  combatants,  and  ready  for  the  conqueror.  He 
knew  that  the  dominions  of  the  absent  devolved  naturally  to  those 
who  are  in  the  field ;  the  possessions  of  the  supine,  to  the  active  and 
intrepid.  Animated  by  these  sentiments,  he  overturns  whole  nations. 
He  either  rules  universally  as  a  conqueror,  or  governs  as  apiotector. 
For  mankind  naturally  seek  confederacy  with  such  as  they  see  re- 
solved, and  preparing  not  to  be  wanting  to  themselves.  ' 

'  If  you,  my  countrymen !  will  now  at  length  be  persuaded  to  enter- 

*  In  the  following- extracts,  Leland's  translation  is  mostly  followed. 

f  This  thought  is  only  hinted  at  in  the  first  Philippic,  but  brought  out  more 
fully  in  the  third  ;  as  the  same  thought,  occasioned  by  similar  situations  of  affairs 
sometimes  occur  in  the  different  orations  on  this  subject 


294  EXTRACTS  FROM  [lect.  xxvii 

tain  the  like  sentiments;  if  each  of  you  will  be  disposed  to  approve 
himself  an  useful  citizen,  to  the  utmost  that  his  station  and  abilities 
enable  him ;  if  the  rich  will  be  ready  to  contribute,  and  the  young  to 
take  the  field  ;  in  one  word,  if  you  will  be  yourselves,  and  banish  these 
vain  hopes  which  every  single  person  entertains,  that  the  active  part 
of  public  business  may  lie  upon  others, and  he  remain  at  his  ease; 
you  may  then,  by  the  assistance  of  the  gods,  recall  those  opportuni- 
ties which  your  supineness  hath  neglected,  regain  your  dominions, 
and  chastise  the  insolence  of  this  man.' 

'But  when,  0  my  countrymen!  will  you  begin  to  exert  your  vi- 
gour? Do  you  wait  till  roused  by  some  dire  event?  till  forced  by 
some  necessity?  What  then  are  we  to  think  of  our  present  condi- 
tion? To  freemen,  the  disgrace  attending  on  misconduct  is,in  my 
opinion,  the  most  urgent  necessity.  Or  say,  is  it  your  sole  ambition 
to  wander  through  the  public  places,  each  inquiring  of  the  other, 
'what  new  advices?'  Can  any  thing  be  more  new,  than  that  a  man 
of  Macedon  should  conquer  the  Athenians,  and  give  law  to  Greece ! 
'  Is  Philip  dead?' — '  No — but  he  is  sick.'  Pray,  what  is  it  to  you 
whether  Philip  is  sick  or  not?  supposing  he  should  die,  you  would 
raise  up  another  Philip,  if  you  continue  thus  regardless  of  your  in- 
terest. 

'  Many,  I  know,  delight  more  in  nothing  than  in  circulating  all 
the  rumours  they  hear  as  articles  of  intelligence.  Some  cry, 
Philip  hath  joined  with  the  Lacedaemonians,  and  they  are  concert- 
ing the  destruction  of  Thebes.  Others  assure  us,  he  hath  sent  an 
embassy  to  the  king  of  Persia;  others,  that,  he  is  fortifying  places 
in  Illyria.  Thus  we  all  go  about  framing  our  several  tales.  I  do 
believe  indeed,  Athenians !  that  he  is  intoxicated  with  his  greatness, 
and  does  entertain  his  imagination  with  many  such  visionary  pro- 
jects, as  he  sees  no  power  rising  to  oppose  him.  But  I  cannot  be 
persuaded  that  he  hath  so  taken  his  measures,  that  the  weakest 
among  us  (for  the  weakest  they  are  who  spread  such  rumours) 
know  what  he  is  next  to  do.  Let  us  disregard  these  tales.  Let  us 
only  be  persuaded  of  this,  that  he  is  our  enemy;  that  we  have  long 
been  subject  to  his  insolence;  that  whatever  we  expected  to  have 
been  done  for  us  by  others,  hath  turned  against  us;  that  all  the 
resource  left,  is  in  ourselves;  and  that  if  we  are  not  inclined  to  carry 
our  arms  abroad,  we  should  be  forced  to  engage  him  at  home.  Let 
us  be  persuaded  of  these  things,  and  then  we  shall  come  to  a  pro- 
per determination,  and  be  no  longer  guidjd  by  rumours.  We  need 
not  be  solicitous  to  know  what  particular  events  are  to  happen.  We 
may  be  well  assured  that  nothing  good  can  happen,  unless  we  give 
due  attention  to  our  own  affairs,  and  act  as  becomes  Athenians.' 

'  Were  it  a  point  generally  acknowledged*  that  Philip  is  now  at 
actual  war  with  the  state,  the  only  thing  under  deliberation  would 
then  be,  how  to  oppose  him  with  most  safety.  But  since  there  are 
persons  so  strangely  infatuated,  that  although  he  has  already  pos- 
sessed himself  of  a  considerable  part  of  our  dominions ,  although  he  is 

*  Phil  iii. 


lect  xxvii.]  DEMOSTHENES.  295 

still  extending  his  conquests;  although  all  Greece  has  suffered  by 
his  injustice;  yet  they  can  hear  it  repeated  in  this  assembly,  that  it 
is  some  of  us  who  seek  to  embroil  the  state  in  war:  this  suggestion 
must  first  be  guarded  against.  I  readily  admit,  that  were  it  in  our 
power  to  determine  whether  we  should  be  at  peace  or  war,  peace, 
if  it  depended  on  our  option,  is  most  desirable  to  be  embraced. 
But  if  the  other  party  hath  drawn  the  sword,  and  gathered  his 
armies  round  him;  if  he  amuses  us  with  the  name  of  peace,  while, 
in  fact,  he  is  proceeding  to  the  greatest  hostilities,  what  is  left  for  us 
but  to  oppose  him?  If  any  man  takes  that  for  a  peauo,  which  is 
only  a  preparation  for  his  leading  his  forces  directly  upon  us,  after 
his  other  conquests,  I  hold  that  man's  mind  to  be  disordered.  At 
least,  it  is  only  our  conduct  towards  Philip,  not  Philip's  conduct 
towards  us,  that  is  to  be  termed  a  peace ;  and  this  is  the  peace 
for  which  Philip's  treasures  are  expended,  for  which  his  gold  is  so 
liberally  scattered  among  our  venal  orators,  that  he  may  be  at  liberty 
to  carry  on  the  war  against  ycu,  while  you  make  no  war  on  him. 

'Heavens!  is  there  any  man  of  a  right  mind  who  would  judge 
of  peace  or  war  by  words,  and  not  by  actions?  Is  there  any  man 
so  weak  as  to  imagine  that  it  is  for  the  sake  of  those  paltry  villages 
of  Thrace,  Drongylus,  and  Cabyle,  and  Mastira,  that  Philip  is 
now  braving  the  utmost  dangers,  and  enduring  the  severity  of  toils 
and  seasons;  and  that  he  has  no  designs  upon  the  arsenals,  and  the 
navies,  and  the  silver  mines  of  Athens?  or  that  he  will  take  up  his 
winter  quarters  among  the  cells  and  dungeons  of  Thrace,  and  leave 
you  to  enjoy  all  your  revenues  in  peace?  But  you  wait,  perhaps, 
till  he  declare  war  against  you.  He  will  never  do  so:  no,  though  he 
were  at  your  gates.  He  will  still  be  assuring  you  that  he  is  not  at 
war.  Such  were  his  professions  to  the  people  of  Oreum,  when  his 
forces  were  in  the  heart  of  their  country ;  such  his  professions  to 
those  of  Pherae,  until  the  moment  he  attacked  their  walls:  and  thus 
he  amused  the  Olynthians  till  he  came  within  a  few  miles  of  them, 
and  then  he  sent  them  a  message,  that  either  they  must  quit 
their  city,  or  he  his  kingdom.  He  would  indeed  be  the  absur- 
dest  of  mankind,  if,  while  you  suffer  his  outrages  to  pass  unnoticed, 
and  are  wholly  engaged  in  accusing  and  prosecuting  one  another, 
he  should,  by  declaring  war,  put  an  end  to  your  private  contests, 
warn  you  to  direct  all  your  zeal  against  him,  and  deprive  his  pen- 
sioners of  their  most  specious  pretence  for  suspending  your  resolu- 
tions, that  of  his  not  being  at  war  with  the  state.  I,  for  ray  part, 
hold  and  declare,  that  by  his  attack  of  the  Megarseans,  by  his 
attempts  upon  the  liberty  of  Eubcea,  by  his  late  incursions  into 
Thrace,  by  his  practices  in  Peloponnesus,  Philip  has  violated  the 
treaty ;  he  is  in  a  state  of  hostility  with  you  ;  unless  you  shall  affirm, 
that  he  who  prepares  to  besiege  a  city,  is  still  at  peace,  until  the 
walls  be  actually  invested.  The  man  whose  designs,  whose  whoie 
conduct, tends  to  reduce  me  to  subjection,  that  man  is  at  war  with 
ine,  though  not  a  blow  hath  yet  been  given,  nor  a  sword  drawn. 

1  All  Greece,  all  the  barbarian  world,  is  too  narrow  for  this  man's 


896  EXTRACTS  FROM  [lect.  xxvn. 

ambit' vn.  And  though  we  Greeks  see  and  hear  all  this,  we  send 
no  embassies  to  each  other;  we  express  no  resentment;  but  into 
such  wretchedness  are  we  sunk,  that  even  to  this  day,  we  neglect 
what  our  interest  and  duty  demand.  Without  engaging  in  associa- 
tions, or  forming  confederacies,  we  look  with  unconcern  upon  Phi- 
lip's growing  power  ;  each  fondly  imagining,  that  the  time  in  which 
another  is  destroyed,  is  so  much  time  gained  on  him;  although  no 
man  can  be  ignorant,  that,  like  the  regular  periodic  return  of  a  fever, 
he  is  coming  upon  those  who  think  themselves  the  most  remote 
from  danger.  And  what  is  the  cause  of  our  present  passive  disposi- 
tion? For  some  cause  sure  there  must  be,  why  the  Greeks,  who 
have  been  so  zealous  heretofore  in  defence  of  liberty,  are  now  so 
prone  to  slavery.  The  cause,  Athenians  !  is,  that  a  principle,  which 
was  formerly  fixed  in  the  minds  of  all,  now  exists  no  more;  a  prin- 
ciple which  conquered  the  opulence  of  Persia;  maintained  the 
freedom  of  Greece,  and  triumphed  over  the  powers  of  sea  and 
land.  That  principle  was,  an  unanimous  abhorrence  of  all  those 
who  accepted  bribes  from  princes,  that  were  enemies  to  the  liber- 
ties of  Greece.  To  be  convicted  of  bribery,  was  then  a  crime 
altogether  unpardonable.  Neither  orators,  nor  generals,  would 
then  sell  for  gold,  the  favourable  conjunctures  which  fortune  put 
into  their  hands.  No  gold  could  impair  our  firm  concord  at  home, 
our  hatred  and  defiance  of  tyrants  and  barbarians.  But  now  all 
things  are  exposed  to  sale,  as  in  a  public  market.  Corruption  has 
introduced  such  manners,  as  have  proved  the  bane  and  destruction 
of  our  country.  Is  a  man  known  to  have  received  foreign  money  ? 
People  envy  him.  Does  he  own  it?  They  laugh.  Is  he  convicted 
in  form?  They  forgive  him:  so  universally  has  this  contagion  dif- 
fused itself  among  us. 

'If  there  be  any  who,  though  not  carried  away  by  bribes,  yet  are 
struck  with  terror,  as  if  Philip  was  something  more  than  human,  they 
may  see,  upon  a  little  consideration,  that  he  hath  exhausted  all  those 
artifices  to  which  he  owes  his  present  elevation  ;  and  that  his  affairs 
are  now  ready  to  decline.  For  I  myself,  Athenians!  should  think 
Philip  really  to  be  dreaded,  if  I  saw  him  raised  by  honourable  means. 
When  forces  join  in  harmony  and  affection,  and  one  common  interest 
unites  confederating  powers,  then  they  share  the  toils  with  alacrity, 
and  endure  distresses  with  perseverance.  But  when  extravagant 
ambition  and  lawless  power,  as  in  the  case  of  Philip,  have  aggrandiz- 
ed a  single  person,  the  first  pretence,  the  slightest  accident,  over- 
throws him,  and  dashes  his  greatness  to  the  ground.  For,  it  is  not 
possible,  Athenians!  it  is  not  possible,  to  found  a  lasting  power  up- 
on injustice,  perjury,  and  treachery.  These  may  perhaps  succeed 
for  once,  and  borrow  for  a  while,  from  hope,  a  gay  and  a  flourishing 
appearance.  But  time  betrays  their  weakness,  and  they  fall  of  them- 
selves to  ruin.  For,  as  in  structures  of  every  kind,  the  lower  parts 
should  have  the  firmest  stability,  so  the  grounds  and  principles  of 
great  enterprises  should  be  justice  and  truth.  But  this  solid  founda- 
tion is  wanting  to  all  the  enterprises  of  Philip. 

•  Hence  among  his  confederates,  there  are  many  who  hate,  who 


lect  xxvii.]  DEMOSTHENES.  297 

distrust,  who  envy  him.  If  you  will  exert  yourselves  as  your  ho- 
nour and  your  interestrequire,  you  will  not  only  discover  the  weak- 
ness and  insincerity  of  his  confederates,  but  the  ruinous  condition 
also  of  his  own  kingdom.  For  you  are  not  to  imagine,  that  the 
inclinations  of  his  subjects  are  the  same  with  those  of  their  prince. 
He  thirsts  for  glory;  but  they  have  no  part  in  this  ambition.  Ha- 
rassed by  those  various  excursions  he  is  ever  making,  they  groan 
under  perpetual  calamity;  torn  from  their  business  and  their  fami- 
lies;  and  beholding  commerce  excluded  from  their  coasts.  All  those 
glaring  exploits,  which  have  given  him  his  apparent  greatness,  have 
wasted  his  natural  strength,  his  own  kingdom,  and  rendered  it  much 
weaker  than  it  originally  was.  Besides,  his  profligacy  and  baseness, 
md  those  troops  of  buffoons,  and  dissolute  persons,  whom  he  ca- 
resses and  constantly  keeps  about  him,  are,  to  men  of  just  discern- 
ment, great  indications  of  the  weakness  of  his  mind.  At  present,his 
successes  cast  a  shade  over  these  things;  but  let  his  arms  meet  with 
the  least  disgrace,  his  feebleness  will  appear,  and  his  character  be 
exposed.  For,  as  in  our  bodies,  while  a  man  is  in  apparent  health, 
the  effect  of  some  inward  debility,  which  has  been  growing  upon  him, 
may,  for  a  time,  be  concealed  ;  but  as  soon  as  it  comes  the  length  of 
disease,  all  his  secret  infirmities  show  themselves,  in  whatever  part 
of  his  frame  the  disorder  is  lodged :  so,  in  states  and  monarchies, 
while  they  carry  on  «i  war  abroad,  many  defects  escape  the  general 
eye;  but,  as  soon  as  wrr  reaches  their  own  territory,  their  infirmities 
come  forth  to  general  observation. 

'Fortune  has  great  influence  in  all  human  affairs;  but  I,  for  my 
part,  should  prefer  the  fortune  of  Athens,  with  the  least  degree  of  vi- 
gour in  asserting  your  cause,  to  this  man's  fortune.  For  wQ  have 
many  better  reasons  to  depend  upon  the  favour  of  Heaven  than  this 
man.  But,  indeed,  he  who  will  not  exeithis  o<^n  strength,  hath  no 
iitle  to  depend  either  on  his  friends,  or  on  the  gods.  Is  it  at  all  sur- 
prising that  he,  who  is  himself  ever  amidst  the  labours  and  dangers 
jf  the  field;  who  is  every  where  ;  whom  no  opportunity  escapes; 
vO  whom  no  season  is  unfavourable;  should  besupeiioi  to  you,  who 
ire  wholly  engaged  in  contriving  delays, and  framing  decrees,  and 
enquiring  after  news.  The  contrary  would  be  much  more  surprising, 
if  we,  who  have  never  hitherto  acted  as  became  a  state  engaged  in 
war,  should  conquer  one  who  acts,  in  every  instance,  with  indefati- 
gable vigilance.  It  is  this,  Athenians !  it  is  this  which  gives  him  all 
his  advantage  against  you.  Philip,  constantly  surrounded  by  his 
troops,  and  perpetually  engaged  in  projecting  his  designs,  can,  in 
moment,  strike  the  blow  where  he  pleases.  But  we,  when  any  ace  i 
dent  alarms  us,  first  appoint  our  Trierarchs  ;  then  we  allow  them  the 
exchange  by  substitution;  then  the  supplies  are  considered;  next, 
we  resolve  to  man  our  fleet  with  strangers  and  foreigners;  then  find 
it  necessary  to  supply  their  place  ourselves.  In  the  midst  of  these 
delays,  what  we  are  failing  to  defend,  the  enemy  is  already  master 
of;  for  the  time  of  action  is  spent  by  us  in  preparing;  and  the  issues 
of  war  will  not  wait  for  our  slow  and  irresolute  measures. 
2U  =« 


298 


DEMOSTHENES. 


[lect.  XXVII 


'  Consider,  then,  your  present  situation,  and  make  such  provision 
as  the  urgent  danger  requires.  Talk  not  of  your  ten  thousands,  or 
your  twenty  thousand  foreigners  ;  of  those  armies  which  appear  so 
magnificent  on  paper  only  ;  great  and  terrible  in  your  decrees,  in 
execution  weak  and  contemptible.  But  let  your  army  be  made  up 
chiefly  of  the  native  forces  of  the  state  ;  let  it  be  an  Athenian  strength 
to  which  you  are  to  trust ;  and  whomsoever  you  appoint  as  general, 
et  them  be  entirely  under  his  guidance  and  authority.  For  ever 
since  our  armies  have  been  formed  of  foreigners  alone,  their  victories 
have  been  gained  over  our  allies  and  confederates  only,  while  our 
enemies  have  risen  to  an  extravagant  power.' 

The  orator  goes  on  to  point  out  the  number  of  forces  which  should 
be  raised  ;  the  places  of  their  destination  ;  the  season  of  the  year 
m  which  they  should  set  out;  and  then  proposes,  in  form,  his 
motion,  as  we  would  call  it,  or  his  decree,  for  the  necessary  supply 
of  money,  and  for  ascertaining  the  funds  from  which  it  should  be 
raised.  Having  finished  all  that  relates  to  the  business  under  de 
liberation,  he  concludes  these  orations  on  public  affairs,  commonlv 
with  no  longer  peroration  than  the  following,  which  terminates  the 
first  Philippic  ;  '  I,  for  my  part,  have  never,  upon  any  occasion,  chosen 
to  court  your  favour  by  speaking  any  thing  but  what  I  was  convinced 
would  serve  you.  And  on  this  occasion,  you  have  heard  my  senti- 
ments freely  declared,  without  art,  and  without  reserve.  I  should 
have  been  pleased,  indeed,  that,  as  it  is  for  your  advantage  to  have 
your  true  interest  laid  before  you,  so  I  might  have  been  assured, 
that  he  who  layeth  it  before  you  would  share  the  advantage.  But 
uncertain  as  I  know  the  consequence  to  be  with  respect  to  myself, 
I  yet  determined  to  speak,  because  I  was  convinced  that  these 
measures,  if  pursued,  must  prove  beneficial  to  the  public.  And,  of 
all  those  opinions  which  shall  be  offered  to  your  acceptance,  may  the 
gods  determine  that  to  be  chosen  which  will  best  advance  the  gene- 
ral welfare !' 

These  extracts  may  serve  to  give  some  imperfect  idea  of  the  man- 
ner of  Demosthenes.  For  a  juster  and  more  complete  one,  recourse 
must  be  had  to  the  excellent  original. 


QUESTIONS. 


After  the  preliminary  views  which 
have  been  given  of  the  nature  cf  elo- 
quence in  general,  and  of  the  state  in 
which  it  has  subsisted  in  different  ages 
and  cotmtrns,  upon  what  are  we  now 
to  enter?  Into  what  three  kinds  did 
the  ancients  divide  all  orations;  and 
what  was  the  scope  of  each  ?  What 
were  the  chief  subjects  of  demonstra- 
te eloquence  ?  In  what  was  the  deli- 
oerative  employed ;  and  of  the  judicial, 


what  is  observed?  Of  this  division, 
what  is  remarked  ?  What  division  will 
suit  our  purpose  better,  and  be  found 
more  useful  ?  How  does  this  division 
coincide  with  the  ancient  one;  but 
with  what  exception?  What  belongs 
to  all  three  ?  But  before  proceeding  to 
them,  what  does  our  author  intend  to 
show;  and  why?  How  is  this  illus- 
trated? What  shall  our  author  la;, 
aside ;  and  with  what  will  he  begin? 


LECT.   XXVII.] 


QUESTIONS. 


298  a 


Where  is  the  most  august  theatre  of 
this  kind  of  eloquence  to  be  found? 
Where,  also,  may  it  display  itself ;  and 
where  may  it  take  place  !2  What  is  its 
object;  and  what  must  there  always 
be  ?  In  all  attempts  to  persuade  men, 
upon  what  principle  must  we  proceed  1 
What  is  a  most  erroneous  opinion ;  and 
what  remark  follows?  Why  will  the 
show  of  eloquence  which  they  make, 
please  only  the  trifling  and  superficial  ? 
Of  whatever  rank  the  hearer  may  be, 
what  is  the  speaker  never  to  presume  ? 
Why  is  it  a  dangerous    experiment? 
How  is  this  remark  illustrated  ?  When, 
particularly,  ought  public  speakers  to 
be  careful  not  to  trifle  witJi  their  hear- 
ers?   What  should    ever   be  kept  in 
view?    How  is  this   illustrated;  and 
hence,  what  follows  ?  In  preference  to 
what,  should  puBlic  speaking  set  such  a 
pattern  as  this  before  them  ?  In  address- 
ing a  popular  assembly,  what  should  be 
their  first  study?  What  will  be  the  ef- 
fect of  this;   and  what  will  follow? 
What  says  Quintilian?  What  is  the 
next  requisite,  in  order  to  be  a  persua- 
sive speaker  in  a  popular  assembly? 
What  should  we  never  espouse ;  and 
why  ?  What  only  carries  conviction  ? 
In  a  former  lecture,  what  was  obser- 
ved ?  Of  this,  what  is  here  observed ; 
and  what  follows?  What  do  young 
people  consider  useful  ?  But  of  what  is 
our  author  afraid?  Under  what  circum- 
stances only  should  they  allow  them- 
selves such  a  liberty  ?  Why  is  it  not, 
even  in  such  meetings,  recommended 
as  the  most  useful  exercise  ?  By  pur- 
suing this  course,  what  habit  will  they 
acquire  ?  Where  is  it  particularly  dan- 
gerous for  young  practitioners  to  make 
use  of  this  sort  of  play  of  speech ;  and 
why?  What  do   debates    in  popular 
courts  seldom  allow  the  speaker  ?  To 
what  must  the  arguments  be  suited ; 
and  what  follows?    Against  what  is 
there  a  general  prejudice;  and  when 
only  have  they  any  propriety  ?  As  the 
debate  advances,  why  are  they  un- 
suitable? Against  what  does  this  not 
conclude;  and  of  the  neglect  of  it,  what 
is  observed?  What  kind  of  premedita- 
tion i?  most  advantageous?  With  re- 
gard to  the  matter,  and  with  .egard  to 
the  words  and  expression,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  Until  what  period  may  it  be 
proper  for  a  young  person  to  commit  to 
memory  the  whole  of  what  he  has  to 


say  ?  But  after  some  performances  of 
this  kind  shall  have  given  him  bold- 
ness, what  will  he  find  to  be  a  better 
method?  Of  what  advantage  will  these 
short  notes  be  ?  To  what  does  this  lead 
our  author  in  the  next  place  to  ob- 


serve? By  this,  what  does  he  not 
mean?  But,  though  the  method  be  not 
laid  down  in  form,  yet  what  follows  ? 
What  will  every  one  who  speaks  find  ot 
great  advantage?  What  will  be  the 
effect  of  this  ?  With  respect  to  hearers, 
what  is  observed ;  and  what  is  its  ef- 
fect? What  is,  therefore,  observed; 
and  why  ?  Of  what  is  our  author  here- 
after to  treat?  What  shall  we  now 
consider  ;  and  of  them,  what  is  obser- 
ved ?  Of  the  effect  of  the  aspect  of  a 
large  assembly,  what  is  observed ;  and 
why  ?  What  have  then  their  proper 
place;  and  what  form  the  peculiar 
characteristics  of  popular  eloquence,  in 
its  highest  degree  of  perfection  ? 

Of  the  liberty  which  we  are  now 
giving,  of  the  strong  and  passionate 
manner  to  this  kind  of  oratory,  what  is 
observed  ?  What  is  the  first  restraint , 
and  why  ?  For  what  is  there  most  fre- 
quent occasion;  and  what  follows? 
What  is  the  second  restraint  ?  What  is 
always  its  effect ;  and  why  ?  How  is 
this  illustrated  ?  What  is  here  the  great 
rule  ?  In  what  manner  may  one  be  a 
speaker  both  of  reputation  and  influ- 
ence ?  But  to  attain  the  pathetic  and 
sublime  in  oratory,  what  is  required  ? 
What  is  the  third  restraint  ?  What  re- 
mark follows  ?  What  must  he  not  do  ; 
how  must  he  begin ;  and  why  ?  Let  a 
speaker  have  ever  so  good  reason  to  be 
animated,  and  fired  by  his  subject,  what 
is  always  expected  of  him  ?  What  has 
a  wonderful  effect  both  to  please  and 
to  persuade  ?  Of  it,  what  is  remarked? 
What  is  the  fourth  restraint  ?  Why  is 
this  direction  given?  Of  this,  what  is 
observed  ?  For  what  is  it  no  reason  ? 
But  for  what  is  it  a  reason  ?  What  & 
done  by  Demosthenes,  in  order  to  justi- 
fy the  unsuccessful  action  of  Chero- 
nrea  ?  What  is  also  done  by  Cicero; 
and  of  both  passages,  what  is  observed/ 
What  remark  follows?  What  3s  the 
fifth  and  last  restraint?  What  cannot 
atone  for  neglect  of  these  ?  How  is  this 
remark  illustrated  ?  What  says  Quin- 
tilian ?  No  one  should  ever  rise  to  spea> 
in  public,  without  first  doing  what? 
WTiere,  among  the  ancients,  shall  w*> 


298  b 


QUESTIONS. 


("lect.  XXVI11 


find  this  particularly  insisted  on  ?  Re- 
rite  the  admonition  contained  in  Cicero's 
oration,  ad  Brutum.  What  should  the 
current  style  he  ?  Of  quaint  and  artifi- 
cial expressions,  what  is  here  observed  ? 
What  should  be  studied  ;  and  what, 
when  properly  introduced,  produces  a 
happy  effect?  Under  what  circum- 
stances may  some  inaccuracies  be  over- 
looked ?  When  do  they  escape  ?  With 
regard  to  the  degree  of  conciseness  or 
diffuseness,  what  is  observed?  What 
manner  has  commonly  been  recom- 
mended ?  What,  however,  is  our  au- 
thor inclined  to  think  ?  Of  what  is  there 
no  doubt  ?  To  do  what  must  care  be 
taken ;  but  of  this  care,  what  is  obser- 
ved ?  Of  a  loose  and  verbose  manner, 
what  is  remarked  ?  What  had  we  bet- 
ter dc  ?  Of  what  is  our  author  after- 
wards to  treat  ?  At  present,  what  is  it 
sufficient  to  observe?  What  manner 
should  always  be  shunned  ?  But  what 
may  be  assumed  even  by  a  modest 
man  ?  What  does  a  feeble  and  hesi- 
tating manner  bespeak;  and  what  is 
said  of  it?  What  is  the  end  of  popular 
speaking ;  and  on  what  must  it  be 
(bunded  ?  If  we  would  be  speakers  of 
business,  and  not  mere  declaimers,  what 
must  be  the  basis  ?  On  what  should  we 
be  engaged  in  earnest ;  and  what 
should  we  utter?  Of  what  should  the 
premeditation  be?  How  is  this  illus- 
trated ?  With  what  remark  is  this  head 
concluded  ?  Why  are  the  following  ex- 


tracts from  Demosthenes  inserted  ?  Un- 
der the  great  disadvantage  of  an  Eng- 
lish translation,  what  will  they  exhibit? 
Whence  are  the  following ;  and  of 
them,  what  is  observed  ?  How  are  the 
extracts  selected;  and  why?  What  is 
the  subject  of  the  orations  ?  What  dis- 
position did  the  Athenians  manifest  1 
In  this  critical  conjuncture,  who  arose ; 
and  in  what  manner  does  he  besnn  his 
first  Philippic  ?  (The  following  extracts 
should  be  carefully  committed.) 


ANALYSIS. 

The  different  kinds  of  public  speaking. 

1.  The  eloquence  of  popular  assem- 

blies. 

a.  Its  foundation. 

B.  The  speaker  himself  should  be 
persuaded  of  what  he  recom- 
mends to  others. 

c.  Preparative  directions. 

d.  The  style  of  popular  eloquence. 
a.  The  warmth  should  be  suited 

to  the  subject. 
6.  It  should  never  be  counter- 
feited. 

c.  It  should  not  be  carried  too  far. 

d.  The  public  ear  should  be  re- 
garded. 

e.  The  decorums  of  time,  place 
&c.  should  be  attended  to. 

2.  Extracts  from  Demosthenes'  ora 
dons. 


LECTURE   XXVIII. 


ELOQUENCE  OF   THE  BAR.— ANALYSIS  OF  CICE- 
RO'S ORATION   FOR  CLUENTIUS. 


I  treated  in  the  last  lecture  of  what  is  peculiar  to  the  eloquence 
of  popular  assemblies.  Much  of  what  was  said  on  that  head  is  ap- 
plicable to  the  eloquence  of  the  bar,  the  next  great  scene  of  public 
speaking,  to  which  I  now  proceed,  and  my  observations  upon  which 
will  therefore  be  the  shorter.  All,  however,  that  was  said  in  the  for- 
mer lecture,  must  not  be  applied  to  it ;  and  it  is  of  importance  that 
I  begin  with  showing  where  the  distinction  lies. 


LEcr.  xxviii.J         ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  BAR.  295 

In  the  first  place,  the  ends  of  speaking  at  the  bar,  and  in  popular 
assemblies,  are  commonly  different.  In  popular  assemblies,  the 
great  object  is  persuasion;  the  orator  aims  at  determining  the  hear 
ers  to  some  choice  or  conduct,  as  good,  fit,  or  useful.  For  accom- 
plishing this  end,  it  is  incumbent  on  him  to  apply  himself  to  all  the 
principles  of  action  in  our  nature;  to  the  passions  and  to  the  heart, 
as  well  as  to  the  understanding.  But,  at  the  bar,  conviction  is  the 
great  object.  There,  it  is  not  the  speaker's  business  to  persuade  the 
judges  to  what  is  good  or  useful,  but  to  show  them  what  is  just  and 
true  ;  and  of  course,  it  is  chiefly,  or  solely,  to  the  understanding  that 
his  eloquence  is  addressed.  This  is  a  characteristical  difference' 
which  ought  ever  to  be  kept  in  view. 

In  the  next  place,  speakers  at  the  bar  address  themselves  to  one 
or  to  a  few  judges,  and  these,  too,  persons  generally  of  age,  gravity, 
and  authority  of  character.  There  they  have  not  those  advantages 
which  a  mixed  and  numerous  assembly  affords  for  employing  all  the 
arts  of  speech,  even  supposing  their  subject  to  admit  them.  Pas- 
sion does  not  rise  so  easily ;  the  speaker  is  heard  more  coolly ;  he  is 
watched  over  more  severely;  and  would  expose  himself  to  ridicule, 
by  attempting  that  high  vehement  tone,  which  is  only  proper  in 
speaking  to  a  multitude. 

In  the  last  place,  the  nature  and  management  of  the  subjects 
which  belong  to  the  bar,  require  a  very  different  species  of  oratory 
from  that  of  popular  assemblies.  In  the  latter,  the  speaker  has  a 
much  wider  range.  He  is  seldom  confined  to  any  precise  rule; 
he  can  fetch  his  topics  from  a  greaL  variety  of  quarters;  and  employ 
every  illustration  which  his  fancy  or  imagination  suggests.  But,  at 
the  bar,  the  field  of  speaking  is  limited  to  precise  law  and  statute. 
Imagination  is  not  allowed  to  take  its  scope.  The  advocate  has  al- 
ways lying  before  him  the  line,  the  square,  and  the  compass.  These, 
it  is  his  principal  business  to  be  continually  applying  to  the  subjects 
under  debate. 

For  these  reasons,  it  is  clear,  that  the  eloquence  of  the  bar  is  of 
a  much  more  limited,  more  sober  and  chastened  kind,  than  that  ot 
popular  assemblies ;  and  for  similar  reasons,  we  must  beware  of 
considering  even  the  judicial  orations  of  Cicero  or  Demosthenes, 
as  exact  models  of  the  manner  of  speaking  which  is  adapted  to  the 
present  state  of  the  bar.  It  is  necessary  to  warn  young  lawyers  of 
this ;  because,  though  these  were  pleadings  spoken  in  civil  or  criminal 
eauses,  yet,  in  fact,  the  nature  of  the  bar  anciently,  both  in  Greece 
and  Rome,  allowed  a  much  nearer  approach  to  popular  eloquence, 
than  what  it  now  does.     This  was  owing  chiefly  to  two  causes: 

First,  Because  in  the  ancient  judicial  orations,  strict  law  was 
much  less  an  object  of  attention  than  it  is  become  among  113  In 
the  days  of  Demosthenes  and  Cicero,  the  municipal  statutes  were 
few,  simple,  and  general ;  and  the  decision  of  causes  was  trusted, 
in  a  great  measure,  to  the  equity  and  common  sense  of  the  judges. 
Eloquence,  mucb  more  than  jurisprudence,  was  the  study  of  those 
who  were  to  plead  causes.      Cicero  somewhere  says,  that  three 


300  ELOQUEx\CE  OF  THE  BAR.        [lect  xxviri 

monihs  study  was  sufficient  to  make  any  man  a  complete  civilian; 
nay,  it  was  thought  that  one  might  be  a  good  pleader  at  the  bar. 
who  had  never  studied  law  at  all.  For  there  were  among  the  Ro- 
mans a  set  of  men  called  pragmatici,  whose  office  it  was  to  give 
the  orator  all  the  law  knowledge  which  the  cause  he  was  to  plead 
required,  and  which  he  put  into  that  popular  form,  and  dressed  up 
with  those  colours  of  eloquence,  that  were  best  fitted  for  influencing 
the  judges  before  whom  he  spoke. 

We  may  observe  next,  that  the  civil  and  criminal  judges,  both  in 
Greece  and  Rome,  were  commonly  much  more  numerous  than 
they  are  with  us,  and  formed  a  sort  of  popular  assembly.  The 
renowned  tribunal  of  the  Areopagus  at  Athens  consisted  of  fifty 
judges  at  the  least.*  Some  make  it  to  consist  of  a  great  many  more. 
When  Socrates  was  condemned,  by  what  court  it  is  uncertain, 
we  are  informed  that  no  fewer  than  2S0  voted  against  him.  In 
Rome,  the  Praetor,  who  was  the  proper  judge  both  in  civil  and 
criminal  causes,  named,  for  every"  cause  of  moment,  the  Judices 
S'electi,  as  they  were  called,  who  were  always  numerous,  and  had 
the  office  and  power  of  both  judge  and  jury.  In  the  famous  cause 
of  Milo,  Cicero  spoke  to  fifty-one  Judices  Selecti,  and  so  had  the 
advantage  of  addressing  his  whole  pleading,  not  to  one  or  a  few 
learned  judges  of  the  point  of  law,  as  is  the  case  with  us,  but  to 
an  assembly  of  Roman  citizens.  Hence  all  those  arts  of  popular 
eloquence,  which  we  find  the  Roman  orator  so  frequently  employ- 
ing, and  probably  with  much  success.  Hence  tears  and  commis- 
eration are  so  often  made  use  of  as  the  instruments  of  gaining  a 
cause.  Hence  certain  practices,  which  would  be  reckoned  thea- 
trical among  us,  were  common  at  the  Roman  bar;  such  as  introduc 
ing  not  only  the  accused  person  dressed  in  deep  mourning,  but 
presenting  to  the  judges  his  family,  and  his  young  children,  endea 
vouring  to  move  them  by  their  cries  and  tears. 

For  these  reasons,  on  account  of  the  wide  difference  between 
the  ancient  and  modern  state  of  the  bar,  to  which  we  may  add  also 
the  difference  in  the  turn  of  ancient  and  modern  eloquence,  which 
I  formerly  took  notice  of,  too  strict  an  imitation  of  Cicero's  man- 
ner of  pleading  would  now  be  extremely  injudicious.  To  great 
advantage  he  may  still  be  studied  by  every  speaker  at  the  bar.  Jn 
the  address  with  which  he  opens  his  subject,  and  the  insinuation  he 
employs  for  gaining  the  favour  of  the  judges;  in  the  distinct  ar- 
rangement of  his  facts;  in  the  gracefulness  of  his  narration;  in  the 
conduct  and  exposition  of  his  arguments,  he  may  and  he  ought  to 
be  imitated.  A  higher  pattern  cannot  be  set  before  us ;  but  one  who 
should  imitate  him  also  in  his  exaggeration  and  amplifications,  in  his 
diffuse  and  pompous  declamation,  and  in  his  attempts  to  raise  pas- 
sion, would  now  make  himself  almost  as  ridiculous  at  the  bar,  as  if 
he  should  appear  there  in  the  Toga  of  a  Roman  lawyer. 

Before  I  descend  to  more  particular  directions  concerning  the 
eloquence  of  the  bar,  I  must  be  allowed  to  take  notice,  that  the> 


Vide  Potter,  Antiq.vol.  i.  p.  102. 


lect.  xxvm.]         ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  BAR.  301 

foundation  of  a  lawyer's  reputation  and  success,  must  always  be 
laid  in  a  profound  knowledge  of  his  own  profession.  Nothing  is  of 
such  consequence  to  him,  or  deserves  more  his  deep  and  serious 
study.  For  whatever  his  abilities  as  a  speaker  may  be,  if  his  know- 
ledge of  the  law  be  reckoned  superficial,  few  will  choose  to  commit 
their  cause  to  him.  Besides  previous  study,  and  a  proper  stock  of 
knowledge  attained,  another  thing,  highly  material  to  the  success 
of  e\ory  pleader,  is,  a  diligent  and  painful  attention  to  every  cause 
with  which  he  is  entrusted,  so  as  to  be  thoroughly  master  of  all  the 
facts  and  circumstances  relating  to  it.  On  this,  the  ancient  rhetori- 
cians insist  with  great  earnestness,  and  justly  represent  it  as  a  neces- 
sary basis  to  all  the  eloquence  that  can  be  exerted  in  pleading. 
Cicero  tells  us  (under  the  character  of  Antonius,  in  the  second  book 
DeOratore)  thathe  always  conversed  at  full  length  with  every  client 
who  came  to  consult  him;  that  he  took  care  there  should  be  no 
witness  to  their  conversation,  in  order  that  his  client  might  explain 
himself  more  freely;  that  he  was  wont  to  start  every  objection,  and 
to  plead  the  cause  of  the  adverse  party  with  him,  that  he  might 
come  at  the  whole  truth,  and  be  fully  prepared  on  every  point  of 
the  business;  and  that,  after  the  client  had  retired,  he  used  to 
balance  all  the  facts  with  himself,  under  three  different  characters, 
his  own,  that  of  the  judge,  and  that  of  the  advocate  on  the  oppo 
site  side.  He  censures  very  severely  those  of  the  profession  who 
decline  taking  so  much  trouble;  taxing  them  not  only  with  shame 
ful  negligence,  but  with  dishonesty  and  breach  of  trust.*  To  the 
same  purpose  Quintilian,  in  the  eighth  chapter  of  his  last  book, 
delivers  a  great  many  excellent  rules  concerning  all  the  methods 
which  a  lawyer  should  employ  for  attaining  the  most  thorough 
knowledge  of  the  cause  he  is  to  plead;  again  and  again  recommend- 
ing patience  and  attention  in  conversation  with  clients,  and  ob- 
serving very  sensibly,  '  Non  tarn  obest  audire  supervacua,  quam 
ignorare  necessaria.  Frequenter  enim  et  vulnus,  et  remedium,  in 
lis  orator  inveniet  quae  litigatorie  in  neutram  partem,  habere  mo- 
mentum videbantur.'t 

Supposing  an  advocate  to  be  thus  prepared,  with  all  the  know- 
ledge which  the  study  of  the  law  in  general,  and  of  that  cause 
which  he  is  to  plead  in  particular,  can  furnish  him,  I  must  next  ob- 

*  '  Equidem  soleo  dare  operam,  ut  de  sua  quisque  re  me  ipse  doceat ;  et  ne- 
quis  alius  adsit,  quo  liberius  loquatur;  et  agere  adversarii  causam,  ut  ille  agat 
suam  ;  et  quicquid  de  sua  re  cogitaret,  in  medium  proferat.  Itaque  cumville  de- 
cessit,  ties  personas  unus  sustineo,  summa  animi  equitate ;  meam,  adversarii, 
judices. — Nomiuili  dum  operam  suam  multam  existimari  volunt,  ut  toto  foro  vol- 
itare,  et  accusa  ad  causam  ire  videantur,  causas  dicunt  incognitas.  In  quo  est  ilia 
quidem  magna  offensio,  vel  negligentise  susceptis  rebus,  vel  perfidiae  receptis  ;  sed 
etiam  ilia,  major  opinione,  quod  nemo  potest  de  ea  re  quam  non  novit,  non  turpissime 
dicere.' 

t '  To  listen  to  .something  that  is  superfluous  can  do  no  hurt ;  whereas  to  be 
fgnorant  of  something  that  is  material,  may  be  highly  prejudicial.  The  advocate 
will  frequently  discover  the  weak  side  of  a  cause,  and  learn  at  the  same  time,  what  is 
the  proper  defence,  from  circumstances  which,  to  the  party  himself,  appeared  to  be  oi 
little  or  no  mompnt.' 


302  ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  BAR.      [lect.  xxvih 

serve,  that  eloquence  in  pleading  is  of  the  highest  moment  for 
giving  support  to  a  cause.  It  were  altogether  wrong  to  infer,  that 
because  the  ancient  popular  and  vehement  manner  is  now  in  a  great 
measure  superseded,  there  is  therefore  no  room  for  eloquence 
at  the  bar,  and  that  the  study  of  it  is  become  superfluous.  Though 
the  manner  of  speaking  be  changed,  yet  still  there  is  a  right  and 
proper  manner,  which  deserves  to  be  studied  as  much  as  ever. 
Perhaps  there  is  no  scene  of  public  speaking  where  eloquence  is 
more  necessary.  For,  on  other  occasions,  the  subject  on  which 
men  speak  in  public,  is  frequently  sufficient,  by  itself,  to  interest 
the  hearers.  But  the  dryness  and  subtilty  of  the  subjects  ge- 
nerally agitated  at  the  bar,  require,  more  than  any  other,  a  certain 
kind  of  eloquence, in  order  to  command  attention  ;  in  order  to  give 
proper  weight  to  the  arguments  that  are  employed,  and  to  prevent 
any  thing  which  the  pleader  advances  from  passing  unregarded. 
The  effect  of  good  speaking  is  always  very  great.  There  is  as  much 
difference  in  the  impression  made  upon  the  hearers,  by  a  cold, 
dry,  and  confused  speaker,  and  that  made  by  one  who  pleads  the 
same  cause  with  elegance,  order,  and  strength,  as  there  is  between 
our  conception  of  an  object,  when  it  is  presented  to  us  in  a  dim 
light,  and  when  we  behold  it  in  a  full  and  clear  one. 

It  is  no  small  encouragement  to  eloquence  at  the  bar,  that  of  all 
the  liberal  professions,  none  gives  fairer  play  to  genius  and  abilities 
than  that  of  the  advocate.  He  is  less  exposed  than  some  others  to 
suffer  by  the  arts  of  rivalry,  by  popular  prejudices,  or  secret  intrigues. 
He  is  sure  of  coming  forward  according  to  his  merit;  for  he  stands 
forth  every  day  to  view ;  he  enters  the  list  boldly  with  his  competi- 
tors; every  appearance  which  he  makes  is  an  appeal  to  the  public, 
whose  decision  seldom  fails  of  being  just,  because  it  is  impartial. 
Interest  and  friends  may  set  forward  a  young  pleader  with  peculiar 
advantages  beyond  others,  at  the  beginning  ;  but  they  can  do  no 
more  than  open  the  field  to  him.  A  reputation  resting  on  these  as- 
sistances will  soon  fall.  Spectators  remark,  judges  decide,  parties 
watch;  and  to  him  will  the  multitude  of  clients  never  fail  to  resort,, 
who  gives  the  most  approved  specimens  of  his  knowledge,  eloquence., 
snd  industry. 

It  must  belaid  down  for  a  first  principle,  that  the  eloquence  suited 
to  the  bar,  whether  in  speaking  or  in  writing  law  papers,  is  of  the 
calm  and  temperate  kind,  and  connected  with  close  reasoning. 
Sometimes  a  little  play  may  be  allowed  to  the  imagination,  in  order 
to  enliven  a  dry  subject,  and  to  give  relief  to  the  fatigue  of  atten- 
tion ;  but  this  liberty  must  be  taken  with  a  sparing  hand  ;  for  a 
florid  style,  and  a  sparkling  manner,  never  fail  to  make  the  speaker 
be  heard  with  a  jealous  ear,  by  the  judge.  They  detract  from  his 
weight,  and  always  produce  a  suspicion  of  his  failing  in  soundness 
and  strength  of  argument.  It  is  purity  and  neatness  of  expression 
which  is  chiefly  to  be  studied  ;  a  style  perspi'cuous  and  proper,  which 
shall  not  be  needlessly  overcharged  with  the  pedantry  oi  law  terms, 
and  where,  at  the  same  time,  no  affectation  shall  appear  of  avoiding 
»hese,  when  they  are  suitable  and  necessary. 


lect.  xxvni.]       ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  BAR.  303 

Verbosity  is  a  common  fault,  of  which  the  gentlemen  of  this  pio< 
fession  are  accused;  and  into  which  the  habit  of  speakingand  writing 
so  hastily,  and  with  so  little  preparation,  as  they  are  often  obliged  to 
do,  almost  unavoidably  betrays  them.  It  cannot,  therefore,  be  too 
much  recommended  to  those  who  are  beginning  to  practise  at  the 
bar,  that  they  should  early  study  to  guard  against  this,  while  as  yet 
they  have  full  leisure  for  preparation.  Let  them  form  themselves, 
especially  in  the  papers  which  they  write,  to  the  habit  of  a  strong 
and  a  correct  style;  which  expresses  the  same  thing  much  better 
in  a  few  words,  than  is  done  by  the  accumulation  of  intricate  and 
endless  periods.  If  this  habit  be  once  acquired,  it  will  become  na- 
tural to  them  afterwards,  when  the  multiplicity  of  business  shall 
force  them  to  compose  in  a  more  precipitant  manner.  Whereas,  if 
the  practice  of  a  loose  and  negligent  style  has  been  suffered  to  be- 
come familiar,  it  will  not  be"  in  their  power,  even  upon  occasions 
when  they  wish  to  make  an  unusual  effort,  to  express  themselves 
with  energy  and  grace. 

Distinctness  is  a  capital  property  in  speaking  at  the  bar.  This 
should  be  shown  chiefly  in  two  things  ;  first,  in  stating  the  question ; 
in  showing  clearly  what  is  the  point  in  debate;  what  we  admit: 
what  we  deny;  and  where  the  line  of  division  begins  between  us. 
and^the  adverse  party.  Next,  it  should  be  shown  in  the  order  and 
arrangemen'  of  all  the  parts  of  the  pleading.  In  every  sort  of  ora 
iion,  a  clear  method  is  of  the  utmost  consequence;  but.  in  those  em- 
Droiled  and  difficult  cases  which  belong  to  the  bar,  it  is  almost  all  in 
all.  Too  much  pains,  therefore,  cannot  be  taken,  in  previously 
studying  the  plan  and  method.  If  there  be  indistinctness  and  dis- 
order there,  we  can  have  no  success  in  convincing:  we  leave  the 
whole  cause  in  darkness. 

With  respect  to  the  conduct  of  narration  and  argumentation,  I 
shall  hereafter  make  several  remarks,  when  I  come  to  treat  of  the 
component  parts  of  a  regular  oration.  I  shall  at  present  only  observe, 
that  the  narration  of  facts  at  the  bar,  should  always  be  as  concise  as 
the  nature  of  them  will  admit.  Facts  are  always  of  the  greatest 
consequence  to  be  remembered  during  the  course  of  the  pleading ; 
but,  if  the  pleader  be  tedious  in  his  manner  of  relating  them,  and 
needlessly  circumstantial,  he  lays  too  great  a  load  upon  the  memo- 
ry. Whereas,  by  cutting  off  all  superfluous  circumstances  in  his  re- 
cital, he  adds  strength  to  the  material  facts;  he  both  gives  a  clearer 
view  of  what  he  relates,  and  makes  the  impression  of  it  more  last- 
ing In  argumentation,  again,  I  would  incline  to  give  scope  to  a 
more  diffuse  manner  at  the  bar,  than  on  some  other  occasions.  For 
in  popular  assemblies,  where  the  subject  of  debate  is  often  a  plain 
question,  arguments,  taken  from  known  topics,  gain  strength  by  their 
conciseness.  But  the  obscurity  of  law-points  frequently  requires 
the  arguments  to  be  spread  out,  and  placed  in  different  lights,  in 
order  to  be  fully  apprehended. 

When  the  pleader  comes  to  refute  the  arguments  emploj^ed  by  his 
adversary,  he  should  be  on  his  guard  not  to  do  them  injustice,  by  dis- 
guising, or  placing  them  in  a  false  light.     The  deceit  is  soon  discov 
2X 


304  ELOQUENCE  OF  THK  BAR.        [lect.xxviii. 

ered;  it  will  not  fail  of  being  excised:  and  Tena«  o  impress  the 
/udge  and  the  hearers  witn  distrust  ■»•  ~ne  =T)ea£er.as  one  who  either 
wants  discernment  to  perceive,  or  wants  fairness  to  admit,  the 
strength  of  the  reasoning  on  the  other  side.  Whereas,  when  they 
see  that  he  states,  with  accuracy  and  candour,  the  arguments  which 
have  been  used  against  him,  before  he  proceeds  to  combat  them,  a 
strong  prejudice  is  created  in  his  favour.  They  are  naturally  led  to 
think,  that  he  has  a  clear  and  full  conception  of  all  that  can  be  said 
on  both  sides  of  the  argument;  that  he  has  entire  confidence  in  the 
goodness  of  his  own  cause ;  and  does  not  attempt  to  support  it  by 
any  artifice  or  concealment.  The  judge  is  thereby  inclined  to  receive 
much  more  readily,  the  impressions  which  are  given  him  by  a 
speaker,  who  appears  both  so  fair  and  so  penetrating.  There  is  no 
part  of  the  discourse,  in  which  the  orator  has  greater  opportunity  of 
showing  a  masterly  address,  than  when  he  sets  himself  to  represent 
the  reasonings  of  his  antagonists,  in  order  to  refute  them. 

Wit  may  sometimes  be  of  service  at  the  bar,  especially  in  a  lively 
reply,  by  which  we  may  throw  ridicule  on  something  that  has  been 
said  on  the  other  side.  But,  though  the  reputation  of  wit  be  daz- 
zling to  a  young  pleader,  I  would  never  advise  him  to  rest  his 
strength  upon  this  talent.  It  is  not  his  business  to  make  an  audience 
laugh,  but  to  convince  the  judge  ;  and  seldom,  or  never,  did  any  one 
lise  to  eminence  in  his  profession,  by  being  a  witty  lawyer. 

A  proper  degree  of  warmth  in  pleading  a  cause  is  always  of  use. 
Though,  in  speaking  to  a  multitude,  greater  vehemence  be  natural ; 
yet, in  addressing  ourselves  even  to  a  single  man,  the  warmth  which 
arises  from  seriousness  and  earnestness,  is  one  of  the  most  powerful 
means  of  persuading  him.  An  advocate  personates  his  client;  he 
has  taken  upon  him  the  whole  charge  of  his  interests;  he  stands  in 
his  place.  It  is  improper,  therefore,  and  has  a  bad  effect  upon  the 
cause,  if  he  appears  indifferent  and  unmoved;  and  few  clients  will 
be  fond  of  trusting  their  interests  in  the  hands  of  a  cold  speaker. 

At  the  same  time,  he  must  beware  of  prostituting  his  earnestness 
and  sensibility  so  much  as  to  enter  with  equal  warmth  into  every 
cause  that  is  committed  to  him,  whether  it  can  be  supposed  really 
to  excite  his  zeal  or  not.  There  is  a  dignity  of  character,  which 
is  of  the  utmost  importance  for  every  one  in  this  profession  to  sup- 
port. For  it  must  never  be  forgotten,  that  there  is  no  instrument 
of  persuasion  more  powerful,  than  an  opinion  of  probity  and  ho- 
nour in  the  person  who  undertakes  to  persuade.*  It  is  scarcely 
.possible  for  any  hearer  to  separate  altogether  the  impression  made 
by  the  character  of  him  that  speaks,  from  the  things  that  he  says. 
However  secretly  and  imperceptibly,  it  will  be  always  lending  its 
weight  to  one  side  or  other;  either  detracting  from,  or  adding  to, 
the  authority  and  influence  of  his  speech.  This  opinion  of  ho- 
nour and  probity  must  therefore  be  carefully  preserved,  both  by 
some  degree  of  delicacy  in  the  choice  of  causes,  and  by  the  man- 

*  '  Plurimum  ad  omnia  momenti  est  in  hoc  positum,  si  vir  bonus  creditur.  Sic  eniro 
(ontingit,  at  non  studlum  advocati,  videatur  affere,  sed  pene  testis  fidem.' 

Quinct.  1.  iv  c.  i- 


lect.  xxvm.]         ORATION  FOR  CLUENTIUS.  305 

tier  of  conducting  them.  And  though,  perhaps,  the  nature  of  the 
profession  may  render  it  extremely  difficultto  carry  this  delicacy  to  it? 
utmost  length,  yet  there  are  attentions  to  this  point,  which,  as  ever} 
good  man  for  virtue's  sake,  so  every  prudent  man  for  reputation's 
sake,  will  find  to  be  necessary.  He  will  always  decline  embarking 
in  causes  that  are  odious  and  manifestly  unjust;  and,  when  he  sup- 
ports a  doubtful  cause,  he  will  lay  the  chief  stress  upon  such  argu- 
ments as  appear  to  his  own  judgment  the  most  tenable;  reserving 
his  zeal  and  his  indignation  for  cases  where  injustice  and  iniquity  are 
flagrant.  But  of  the  personal  qualities  and  virtues  requisite  in  pub- 
lie  speakers,  I  shall  afterwards  have  occasion  to  discourse. 

These  are  the  chief  directions  which  have  occurred  to  me  con- 
cerning the  peculiar  strain  of  speaking  at  the  bar.  In  order  to  illus- 
trate the  subject  farther,  I  shall  give  a  short  analysis  of  one  of  Cice- 
ro's pleadings,  or  judicial  orations.  I  have  chosen  that,  pro  Clu- 
entio.  The  celebrated  one,  pro  Milone,  is  more  laboured  and  showy; 
but  it  is  too  declamatory.  That,  pro  Cluentio,  comes  nearer  the 
strain  of  a  modern  pleading;  and  though  it  has  the  disadvantage 
of  being  very  long  and  complicated  too  in  the  subject,  yet  it  is  one 
cf  the  most  chaste,  correct,  and  forcible,of  all  Cicero's  judicial  ora- 
tions, and  well  deserves  attention  for  its  conduct. 

Avitus  Cluentius,  a  Roman  knight  of  splendid  family  and  fortunes, 
had  accused  his  stepfather  Oppianicus,  of  an  attempt  to  poison  him. 
He  prevailed  in  the  prosecution ;  Oppianicus  was  condemned  and 
banished.  But  as  rumours  arose  of  the  judges  having  been  cor- 
rupted by  money  in  this  cause,  these  gave  occasion  to  much  popu- 
lar clamour,  and  had  thrown  a  heavy  odium  on  Cluentius.  Eight 
years  afterwards  Oppianicus  died.  An  accusation  was  brought 
against  Cluentius  of  having  poisoned  him,  together  with  a  charge 
also  of  having  bribed  the  judges  in  the  former  trial  to  condemn. 
In  this  action  Cicero  defends  him.  The  accusers  were  Sassia,  the 
mother  of  Cluentius,  and  widow  of  Oppianicus,  and  young  Oppianicus, 
the  son.  Q.  Naso,  the  Praetor,  was  judge,  together  with  a  consi- 
derable number  of  Judices  Selecti. 

The  introduction  of  the  oration  is  simple  and  proper,  taken  from 
no  common-place  topic,  but  from  the  nature  of  the  cause.  It  be- 
gins with  taking  notice,  that  the  whole  oration  of  the  accuser  was  di- 
vided into  two  parts.*  These  two  parts  were,  the  charge  of  having 
poisoned  Oppianicus;  on  which  the  accuser,  conscious  of  having  no 
proof,  did  not  lay  the  stress  of  his  cause ;  but  rested  it  chiefly  on 
the  other  charge  of  formerly  corrupting  the  judges,  which  was  capi 
tal  in  certain  cases,  by  the  Roman  law.  Cicero  proposes  to  follow 
him  in  this  method,  and  to  apply  himself  chiefly  to  the  vindication 
of  his  client  from  the  latter  charge.     He  makes  several  proper  ob- 

*  <  Anirnadvertite,  judices,  omnem  accusatoris  oraiionem  in  duas  divisam  esse  partes  . 
auarum  altera  mini  niti  et  magnopere  confidere  videbatur,  invidia  jam  inveterata  judi 
cii  Juniani,  altera  tantum  modo  consuetudinis  causa,  tiuiide  et  diffidenter  attingere  ra- 
tionem  veneficii  criminum  ;  qua  de  re  lege  est  haec  questio  constituta.  Itaque  mihi 
certumest  banc  eandem  distributionem  invidiam  et  criminum  sic  in  dsfensione  servare,  vA 
oraiips  intelligant,  nihil  me  nee  subterfugere  voluisse  reticendo,  nee  obscurare  dicende ' 

39 


306  ANALYSIS  OF  CICERO'S  [lect.  xxvm 

servations  on  the  danger  ofjudges  suffering  themselves  to  be  sway 
ed  by  a  popular  cry,  which  often  is  raised  by  faction,  and  directed 
against  the  innocent.  He  acknowledges,  that  Cluentius  had  suffer 
ed  much  and  long  by  reproach,  on  account  of  what  had  passed  at 
the  former  trial ;  but  begs  only  a  patient  and  attentive  hearing,  and 
assures  the  judges,  that  he  will  state  every  thing  relating  to  that  mat- 
ter so  fairly  and  so  clearly,  as  shall  give  them  entire  satisfaction.  A 
great  appearance  of  candour  reigns  throughout  this  introduction. 

The  crimes  with  which  Cluentius  was  charged,  were  heinous. 
A  mother  accusing  her  son,  and  accusing  him  of  such  actions,  as 
having  first  bribed  judges  to  condemn  her  husband,  and  having 
afterwards  poisoned  him,  were  circumstances  that  naturally  raised 
strong  prejudices  against  Cicero's  client.  The  first  step,  therefore, 
necessary  for  the  orator,  was  to  remove  these  prejudices;  by  show- 
ing what  sort  of  persons  Cluentius's  mother,  and  her  husband  Oppi- 
anicus,  were;  and  thereby  turning  the  edge  of  public  indignation 
against  them.  The  nature  of  the  cause  rendered  this  plan  altoge- 
ther proper,  and  in  similar  situations  it  is  fit  to  be  imitated.  He  exe- 
cutes his  plan  with  much  eloquence  and  force;  and  in  doing  it,  lays 
open  such  a  scene  of  infamy  and  complicated  guilt,  as  gives  a 
shocking  picture  of  the  manners  of  that  age;  and  such  as  would 
seem  incredible,  did  not  Cicero  refer  to  the  proof  that  was  taken  in 
the  former  trial,  of  the  facts  which  he  alleges. 

Sassia,  the  mother,  appeal's  to  have  been  altogether  of  an  aban- 
doned character.  Soon  after  the  death  of  her  first  husband,  the  fa- 
ther of  Cluentius,  she  fell  in  love  with  Aurius  Melinus,  a  young  man 
of  illustrious  birth  and  great  fortune,  who  was  married  to  her  own 
daughter.  She  prevailed  with  him  to  divorce  her  daughter,  and 
then  she  married  him  herself.*  This  Melinus  being  afterwards,  by 
the  means  of  Oppianicus,  involved  in  Sylla's  proscription,  and  put 
to  death;  and  Sassia  being  left,  for  the  second  time,  a  widow,  and 
in  a  very  opulent  situation,  Oppianicus  himself  made  his  addresses 
to  her.  She,  not  startled  at  the  imprudence  of  the  proposal,  nor  at 
<he  thoughts  of  marrying  one,  whose  hands  had  been  imbrued  in  her 
former  husband's  blood,  objected  only,  as  Cicero  says,  to  Oppiani- 
cus having  two  sons  by  his  present  wife.  Oppianicus  removed  the 
objection  by  having  his  sons  privately  despatched ;  and  then,  divorc- 
ing his  wife,  the  infamous  match  was  concluded  between  him  and 
Sassia.  These  flagrant  deeds  are  painted,  as  we  may  well  believe, 
with  the  highest  colours  of  Cicero's  eloquence,  which  here  has  a  ve- 
ry proper  field.     Cluentius,  as  a  man  of  honour,  coukl  no  longer 


*  '  Lectum  ilium  genialem  quem  biennio  ante  filial  sua?  nubenti  straverat,  in 
eadem  d<3mo  sibi  ornari  et  sterni,  expulsa  atque  exturbata  filia,  jubet.  Nubit  ge 
nero  socrus,  nullis  auspicibus,  funestis  ominibus  omnium.  O  mulieris  scelus  incre- 
dibile,  &  prater  hanc  unam,  in  omni  vita  inauditum  !  O  audaciam  singulareir 
non  timuisse,  si  minus  vim  deorum,  hominumque  famam,  at  illam  ipsam  noctem, 
facesque  illas  nuptiales  ?  non  limen  cubiculi?  non  cubile  filiae  ?  non  parietes  de- 
nique  ipsos  superiorum  testes  nuptiarum  ?  perfregit  ac  prostravit  omp'a  cnpiditate 
k.  furore  ?  vicit  pudorem  libido  ;  timorem  audacia;  rationem  amentiS.'  The  warmth 
iw'Cicero's  eloquence,  which  this  passage  beautifully  exemplifies,  is  here  iully  justified 
&y  the  subject. 


lect  xxviii.]     ORATION  FOR  CLUENTIUS.  307 

live  on  any  tolerable  terms  with  a  woman,  a  mother  only  in  tht 
name,  who  had  loaded  herself  and  all  her  family  with  so  mnch  dis- 
honour; and  hence  the  feud  which  had  ever  since  subsisted  be- 
tween them,  and  had  involved  her  unfortunate  son  in  so  much  trou- 
ble and  persecution.  As  for  Oppianicus,  Cicero  gives  a  s^ort  histo- 
ry of  his  life,  and  a  full  detail  of  his  crimes ;  and  by  what  he  relates, 
Oppianicus  appears  to  have  been  a  man  daring,  fierce,  and  cruel,  in- 
satiable in  avarice  and  ambition ;  trained  and  hardened  in  all  the 
crimes  which  those  turbulent  times  of  Marius  and  Sylla's  proscrip- 
tions produced ;  'Such  a  man/  says  our  orator,  '  as,  in  place  of  be- 
ing surprised  that  he  was  condemned,  you  ought  rather  to  wonder 
tbat  he  had  escaped  so  long.' 

And  now,  having  prepared  the  way  by  all  this  narration,  which 
is  clear  and  elegant,  he  enters  on  the  history  of  that  famous  trial,  in 
which  his  client  was  charged  with  corrupting  the  judges.  Both 
Cluentius  and  Oppianicus  were  of  the  city  of  Larinum.  In  a  public 
contest  about  the  rights  of  the  freemen  of  that  city,  they  had  taken 
opposite  sides,  which  embittered  the  misunderstanding  already  sub- 
sisting between  them.  Sassia,  now  the  wife  of  Oppianicus,  pushed 
him  on  to  the  destruction  of  her  son,  whom  she  had  long  hated,  as 
one  who  was  conscious  of  her  crimes;  and, as  Cluentius  was  known 
to  have  made  no  will,  they  expected,  upon  his  death,  to  succeed  to 
his  fortune.  The  plan  was  formed,  therefore,  to  despatch  him  by 
poison  ;  which,  considering  their  former  conduct,  is  no  incredible 
part  of  the  story.  Cluentius  was  at  that  time  indisposed:  the  ser- 
vant of  his  physician  was  to  be  bribed  to  give  him  poison,  and  one 
Fabricius,  an  intimate  friend  of  Oppianicus,  was  employed  in  the 
negotiation.  The  servant  having  made  the  discovery,  Cluentius 
first  prosecuted  Scamander,  a  freedman  of  Fabricius,  in  whose  cus- 
tody the  poison  was  found ;  and  afterwards  Fabricius,  for  this  at- 
tempt upon  his  life.  He  prevailed  in  both  actions:  and  both  these 
persons  were  condemned  by  the  voices,  almost  unanimous,  of  the 
judges. 

Of  both  these  Prejudicia,  as  our  author  calls  them,  or  previous 
trials,  he  gives  a  very  particular  account :  and  rests  upon  them  a  great 
part  of  his  argument,  as  in  neither  of  them,  there  was  the  least  charge 
or  suspicion  of  any  attempt  to  corrupt  the  judges.  But  in  both 
these  trials,  Oppianicus  was  pointed  at  plainly;  in  both,  Scamander 
and  Fabricius,  were  prosecuted  as  only  the  instruments  and  ministers 
of  his  cruel  designs.  As  a  natural  consequence,  therefore,  Cluen- 
tius immediately  afterwards  raised  a  third  prosecution  against  Oppi- 
anicus himself,  the  contriver  and  author  of  the  whole.  It  was  in  this1 
prosecution,  that  money  was  said  to  have  been  given  to  the  judges  , 
all  Rome  was  filled  with  the  report  of  it,  and  the  alarm  loudly  raised 
that  no  man's  life  or  liberty  was  safe,  if  such  dangerous  practices 
were  not  checked.  By  the  following  arguments,  Cicero  defends  his 
client  against  this  heavy  charge  of  the  Crimen  corrupti  Judicii. 

He  reasons  first,  that  there  was  not  the  least  reason  to  suspect  it , 
seeing  the  condemnation  of  Oppianicus  was  a  direct  and  necessary 
consequence  of  the  judgments  given  against  Scamander  and  Frabri- 


308  ANALYSIS  OF  CICERO'S        [lect.  xxviii 

cius,  in  the  two  former  trials ;  trials  that  were  fair  and  uncorrupted,  to 
the  satisfaction  of  the  whole  world.  Yet  by  these,  the  road  was  laid 
clearly  open  to  the  detection  of  Oppianicus's  guilt.  His  instruments 
and  ministers  being  once  condemned,  and  by  the  very  same  judges 
too,  nothing  could  be  more  absurd  than  to  raise  a  cry  about  an  inno- 
cent person  being  circumvented  by  bribery,  when  it  was  evident,  on 
the  contrary,  that  a  guilty  person  was  now  brought  into  judgment, 
under  such  circumstances,  that  unless  the  judges  were  altogether 
inconsistent  with  themselves,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  be  ac- 
quitted. 

He  reasons  next,  that,  if  in  this  trial  there  were  any  corruption  of 
the  judges  by  money,  it  was  infinitely  more  probable,  that  corrup- 
tion should  have  proceeded  from  Oppianicus  than  from  Cluentius. 
For  setting  aside  the  difference  of  character  between  the  two  men, 
the  one  fair, the  other  flagitious;  what  motive  had  Cluentius  to  try 
so  odious  and  dangerous  an  experiment,  as  that  of  bribing  judges  ? 
Was  it  not  much  more  likely  that  he  should  have  had  recourse  to 
this  last  remedy,  who  saw  and  knew  himself,  and  his  causo,  to  be  in 
the  utmost  danger,  than  the  other,  who  had  a  cause  clear  in  itself 
and  of  the  issue  of  which,  in  consequence  of  the  two  previous  sen- 
tences given  by  the  same  judges,  he  had  full  reason  to  be  confident  ? 
Was  it  not  much  more  likely  that  he  should  bribe,  who  had  every 
thing  to  fear;  whose  life,  and  liberty,  and  fortune,  were  at  stake; 
than  he  who  had  already  prevailed  in  a  material  part  of  his  charge, 
and  who  had  no  further  interest  in  the  issue  of  the  prosecution  than 
as  justice  was  concerned  ? 

In  the  third  place,  he  asserts  it  as  a  certain  fact,  that  Oppianicus 
did  attempt  to  bribe  the  judges;  that  the  corruption  in  this  trial,  so 
much  complained  of,  was  employed,  not  by  Cluentius,  but  against 
him.  He  calls  on  Titus  Attius,  the  orator  on  the  opposite  side;  he 
challenges  him  to  deny,  if  he  can,  or  if  he  dare,  that  Stalenus,  one 
of  the  thirty-two  Jadices  Selecti,  did  receive  money  from  Oppiani- 
cus; he  names  the  sum  that  was  given;  he  names  the  persons  that 
were  present,  when,  after  the  trial  was  over,  Stalenus  was  obliged  to 
refund  the  bribe.  This  is  a  strong  fact,  and  would  seem  quite  de- 
cisive. But,  unluckily,  a  very  cross  circumstance  occurs  here.  For 
this  very  Stalenus  gave  his  voice  to  condemn  Oppianicus.  For  this 
strange  incident,  Cicero  accounts  in  the  following  manner:  Stale- 
nus, says  he,  known  to  be  a  worthless  man,  and  accustomed  before 
to  the  like  practices,  entered  into  a  treaty  with  Oppianicus  to  bring 
him  off,  and  demanded  for  that  purpose  a  certain  sum,  which  he 
undertook  to  distribute  among  a  competent  number  of  the  other 
judges.  When  he  was  once  in  possession  of  the  money:  when  he 
found  a  greater  treasure  than  ever  he  had  been  master  of,  deposit- 
ed in  his  empty  and  wretched  habitation,  he  became  very  unwilling 
to  part  with  any  of  it  to  his  colleagues;  and  bethought  himself  of 
gome  means  by  which  he  could  contrive  to  keep  it  all  to  himself. 
The  scheme  which  he  devised  for  this  purpose,  was,  to  promote  the 
condemnation,  instead  of  the  acquittal  of  Oppianicus;  as,  from  a 
condemned  person,  he  did  not  apprehend  much  danger  or  being 


lect.  xxviii.]  ORATION  FOR  CLUENTIUS.  30S 

called  to  account,  or  being  obliged  to  make  restitution.  In  stead, 
therefore,  of  endeavouring  to  gain  any  of  his  colleagues,  he  irritat- 
ed such  as  he  had  influence  with  against  Oppianicus,  by  first  promis- 
ing them  money  in  his  name,  and  afterwards  telling  them  that  Op- 
pianicus had  cheated  him.*  When  sentence  was  to  be  pronounced, 
he  had  taken  measures  for  being  absent  himself:  but  being  brought 
by  Oppianicus's  lawyers  from  another  court,  and  obliged  to  give 
his  voice,  he  found  it  necessary  to  lead  the  way  in  condemning  the 
man  whose  money  he  had  taken,  without  fulfilling  the  bargain 
which  he  had  made  with  him. 

By  these  plausible  facts  and  reasonings,  the  character  of  Cluen 
tius  seems  in  a  great  measure  cleared ;  and,  what  Cicero  chiefly  in 
tended,  the  odium  thrown  upon  the  adverse  party.  But  a  difficult 
part  of  the  orator's  business  still  remained.  There  were  several 
subsequent  decisions  of  the  praetor,  the  censors,  and  the  senate, 
against  the  judges  in  this  cause  ;  which  all  proceeded,  or  seemed 
to  proceed,  upon  this  ground  of  bribery  and  corruption :  for  it  is 
plain  the  suspicion  prevailed,  that  if  Oppianicus  had  given  money 
to  Stalenus,  Cluentius  had  out-bribed  him.  To  all  these  decisions, 
however,  Cicero  replies  with  much  distinctness  and  subtilty  of  ar- 
gument; though  it  might  be  tedious  to  follow  him  through  all  his 
reasonings  on  these  heads.  He  shows,  that  the  facts  were,  at  that 
time,  very  indistinctly  known  ;  that  the  decisions  appealed  to  were 
hastily  given  ;  that  not  one  of  them  concluded  directly  against  his 
client ;  and  that  such  as  they  were,  they  were  entirely  brought  about 
by  the  inflammatory  and  factious  harangues  of  Quinctius,  the  tri- 
bune of  the  people,  who  had  been  the  agent  and  advocate  of  Oppi- 
anicus ;  and  who,  enraged  at  the  defeat  he  had  sustained,  had  em- 
ployed all  his  tribunitial  influence  to  raise  a  storm  against  the  judges 
who  condemned  his  client. 

At  length,  Cicero  comes  to  reason  concerning  the  point  of  law. 
The  Crimen  Corrupti  Judicii,  or  the  bribing  of  judges,  was  capital. 
In  the  famous  Lex  Cornelia  de  Sicariis,  was  contained  this  clause 
(which  we  find  still  extant,  Pandect,  lib.  xlviii.  tit.  10,  §  1.)  '  Qui 
judicem  corruperit,  vel  corrumpendum  curaverit,  hac  lege  teneatur.' 
This  clause,  however,  we  learn  from  Cicero,  was  restricted  to  ma- 
gistrates and  senators ;  and  as  Cluentius  was  only  of  the  equestrian 
order,  he  was  not,  even  supposing  him  guilty,  within  the  law.  0e 
this  Cicero  avails  himself  doubly ;  and  as  he  shows  here  the  most 
masterly  address,  I  shall  give  a  summary  of  his  pleading  on  this 
part  of  the  cause :  .'  You,'  says  he  to  the  advocate  for  the  prosecu- 
tor, '  you,  T.  Attius,  I  know,  had  every  where  given  it  out',  that  I 

*  '  Cum  esset  egens,  sumptuosus,  audax,  callidus,  perfidiosus,  et  cum  dorm  suas, 
miserrimis  in  locis,  et  inanissimis,  tantum  nummorum  positum  viderit,  ad  omnem  mali- 
tiam  et  fraudem  versare  mentem  suam  coepit.  Demne  judicious?  mini  igitur,  ipsi 
prater  periculum  et  infamiam  quid  quseretur  ?  Siquis  eum  forte  casus  ex  periculo 
aripuerit,  nonne  redendum  est?  prscipitantcm  igitur  impellamus,  inquit,  et  peiditum 
prosternamus.  Capit  hoc  consilium  lit  pecuniam  quibusdam  judicious  levissimis  polli- 
ceatur,  deinde  earn  postea  supprimat ;  ut  quoniam  graves  homines  sui  sponte  sever& 
judicatures  putabat,  hos  qui  leviores  erant,  destitutione  iratos  Oppianico  redderet.' 


310  ANALYSIS  OF  CICERO'S       [lect.  xxvih 

was  to  defend  my  client,  net  from  facts,  not  upon  the  footing  of  in- 
nocence, but  by  taking  advantage  merely  of  the  law  in  his  behalf 
Have  I  done  so  ?  I  appeal  to  yourself.  Have  I  sought  to  cover 
him- behind  a  legal  defence  only?  On  the  contrary,  have  I  not 
plead"!  las  cause  as  if  he  had  been  a  senator,  liable,  by  the  Corne- 
!ian  law,  to  be  capitally  convicted ;  and  shown,  that  neither  proof 
nor  probable  presumption  lies  against  his  innocence?  In  doing  so, 
I  must  acquaint  you,  that  I  have  complied  with  the  desire  of  Cluen 
tius  himself.  For  when  he  first  consulted  me  in  this  cause,  and 
when  I  informed  him  that  it  was  clear  no  action  could  be  brought 
against  him  from  the  Cornelian  law,  he  instantly  besought  and  ob- 
tested me,  that  I  would  not  rest  his  defence  on  that  ground  ;  saying, 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  that  his  reputation  was  as  dear  to  him  as  his 
life;  and  that  what  he  sought,  as  an  innocent  man,  was  not  only  to 
be  absolved  from  any  penalty,  but  to  be  acquitted  in  the  opinion  of 
all  his  fellow  citizens. 

'  Hitherto,  then,  I  have  pleaded  this  cause  upon  his  plan.  But  my 
client  must  forgive  me,  if  now  I  shall  plead  it  upon  my  own.  For 
I  should  be  wanting  to  myself,  and  to  that  regard  which  my  charac- 
ter and  station  require  me  to  bear  to  the  laws  of  the  state,  if  I  should 
allow  any  person  to  be  judged  of  by  a  law  which  does  not  bind  him. 
You,  Attius,  indeed,  have  told  us,  that  it  was  a  scandal  and  reproach, 
that  a  Roman  knight  should  be  exempted  from  those  penalties  to 
which  a  senator,  for  corrupting  judges,  is  liable.  But  I  must  tell 
you,  that  it  would  be  a  much  greater  reproach,  in  a  state  that  .s  re- 
gulated by  law,  to  depart  from  the  law.  What  safety  have  any  of 
us  in  our  persons,  what  security  for  our  rights,  if  the  law  shall  be 
set  aside  ?  By  what  title  do  you,  Q.  Naso,  sit  in  that  chair,  and 
preside  in  this  judgment?  By  what  right,  T.  Attius,  do  you  accuse, 
or  do  I  defend  ?  Whence  all  the  solemnity  and  pomp  of  judges,  and 
clerks,  and  officers,  of  which  this  house  is  full  ?  Does  not  all  proceed 
from  the  law,  which  regulates  the  whole  departments  of  the  state 
which,  as  a  common  bond,  holds  its  members  together ;  and,  like 
the  soul  within  the  body,  actuates  and  directs  all  the  public  func- 
tions ?*  On  what  ground,  then,  dare  you  speak  lightly  of  the  law, 
or  move  that,  in  a  criminal  trial,  judges  should  advance  one  step 
beyond  what  it  permits  them  to  go?  The  wisdom  of  our  ancestors 
has  found,  that,  as  senators  and  magistrates  enjoy  higher  dignities, 
and  greater  advantages  than  other  members  of  the  state,  the  law 
should  also,  with  regard  to  them,  be  more  strict,  and  the  purity  and 
uncorruptednessof  their  morals  be  guarded  by  more  severe  sanctions. 

*  Ait  Attius,  :ndignum  esse  facinus,  si  senator  Judicio  quenquam  circumvenerit, 
eum  legibus  teneri :  si  Eques  Romanes  hoc  idem  fecerit,  eura  non  teneri.  Ut  tibi 
concedam  hoc  indignum  esse,  tu  mihi  concedas  necesse  est  multo  esse  indign'us,  in  ea 
civitate  qua;  legibus  contineatur,  discedi  a  legibus.  Hoc  nam  vinculum  est  hujus  dig- 
nitatis qua  fruimur  in  republica.  Hoc  fundamentum  libertatis ;  hie  fons  equitatis  ; 
mens  et  animus,  et  consilium,  et  sententia  civitatis  posita  est  in  legibus.  Ut  corpora 
nostra  sine  mente,  sic  civitas  sine  lege,  suis  partibus,  ut  nervis  ac  sanguine  &.  membris, 
ati  non  potest.  Legum  ministri,  wagistratus  ;  legum  interpretes,  judices  ;  legum  de» 
nique  idcirco  omnes  sumus  servi,  ut  liberi  esse  possimus  ;  Quid  est,  Q.  Naso,  cur  tu  in 
hoc  loco  sedeas  ?,  &c 


lect.  xxvm.]         ORATION  FOR  CLUENTIUS.  311 

But  if  it  be  your  pleasure  that  this  institution  should  be  altered,  if 
you  wish  to  have  the  Cornelian  law,  concerning  bribery,  extended 
to  all  ranks,  then  let  us  join,  not  in  violating  the  law,  but  in  propos- 
ing to  have  this  alteration  made  by  a  new  law.  My  client,  Cluen- 
tius,  will  be  the  foremost  in  this  measure,  who  now,  while  the  old 
law  subsists,  rejected  its  defence,  and  required  his  cause  to  be 
pleaded,  as  if  he  had  been  bound  by  it.  But,  though  he  would  not 
avail  himself  of  the  law,  you  are  bound  in  justice  not  to  stretch  it 
beyond  its  proper  limits.' 

Such  is  the  reasoning  of  Cicero  on  this  head  ;  eloquent  surely, 
and  strong.  As  his  manner  is  diffuse,  I  have  greatly  abridged  i. 
from  the  original,  but  have  endeavoured  to  retain  its  force. 

In  the  latter  part  of  the  oration,  Cicero  treats  of  the  other  accusa- 
tion that  was  brought  against  Cluentius,  of  having  poisoned  Oppi- 
anicus.  On  this,  it  appears,  his  accusers  themselves  laid  small 
stress;  having  placed  their  chief  hope  in  overwhelming  Cluentius 
with  the  odium  of  bribery  in  the  former  trial ;  and  therefore,  on 
this  part  of  the  cause,  Cicero  does  not  dwell  long.  He  shows  the 
improbability  of  the  whole  tale  which  they  related  concerning  this 
pretended  poisoning,  and  makes  it  appear  to  be  altogether  destitute 
of  any  shadow  of  proof. 

Nothing,  therefore,  remains,  but  the  peroration  or  conclusion  of 
the  whole.  In  this,  as  indeed  throughout  the  whole  of  this  oration, 
Cicero  is  uncommonly  chaste;  and,  in  the  midst  of  much  warmth 
and  earnestness,  keeps  clear  of  turgid  declamation.  The  peroration 
turns  on  two  points;  the  indignation  which  the  character  and  con- 
duct of  Sassia  ought  to  excite,  and  the  compassion  due  to  a  son  per- 
secuted through  his  whole  life  by  such  a  mother.  He  recapitulates 
the  crimes  of  Sassia;  her  lewdness,  her  violation  of  every  decorum  ; 
her  incestuous  marriages,  her  violence  and  cruelty.  He  places,  in 
the  most  odious  light,  the  eagerness  and  fury  which  she  had  shown 
in  the  suit  she  was  carrying  on  against  her  son;  descrbes  her  jour- 
ney from  Larinum  to  Rome,  with  a  train  of  attenaants,  and  a  great 
store  of  money,  that  she  might  employ  every  method  for  circum, 
venting  and  oppressing  him  in  this  trial ;  while,  in  the  whole 
course  of  her  journey,  she  was  so  detested,  as  to  make  a  solitude 
wherever  she  lodged;  she  was  shunned  and  avoided  by  all;  her 
company  and  her  very  looks  were  reckoned  contagious;  the  house 
was  deemed  polluted  which  was  entered  into  by  so  abandoned  a 
woman.*     To  this  he  opposes  the  character  of  Cluentius,  fair,  un 

*  '  Cum  appropinquare  hujus  judicium  ei  nuntiatum  est,  confestim  hue  adolavit , 
bc  aut  accusatoribus  diligentia,  aut  pecunia  testibus  deesset ;  aut  ne  forte  mater  hoc 
sibi  optatissimum  spectaculum  hujus  sordium  atque  luctus,  et  tanti  squaloris  amitteret. 
Jam  vero  quod  iter  Romam  hujus  mulieris  fuisse  existimatis  ?  Quod  ego  propter  vici- 
nitaiem  Aquinatium  ct  Venafranorum  ex  multis  comperi :  quos  concursus  in  his  oppi- 
dis  ?  Quantos  ct  virorum  et  mulierum  gemitus  esse  factos  ?  Mulierem  quandam  Larino, 
atque  illam  usque  a  mari  supero  Romam  proficisci  cum  magno  comitatu  et  pecunia, 
quo  facilius  circumvenire  judicio  capitis,  atque  opprimere  (ilium  posset.  Nemo  erai 
illorum,  pane  dicam,  quin  expiandum  ilium  locum  esse  arbitraretur  quacunque  ilia 
iter  fecisset ;  nemo,  quin  terram  ipsam  violari,  quas  mater  est  omnium,  vestigiis  con. 
sclerals  matris  putaret.  Ilaque  nullo  in  oppido  consistendi  ei  potestas  fuit,  nemo  ei 
tot  hospitibus  inventus  est  qui  non  contagionem  aspectis  ftigeret.' 

2  Y 


312  QUESTIONS.  [lect.  xxviii 

spotted,  and  respectable.  He  produces  the  testimonies  of  the  ma- 
gistrates of  Larinum  in  his  favour,  given  in  the  most  ample  and  ho- 
nourable manner  by  a  public  decree,  and  supported  by  a  great  con- 
course of  the  most  noted  inhabitants,  who  were  now  present  to 
second  every  thing  that  Cicero  could  say  in  favour  of  Cluentius. 

'Wherefore,  judges,'  he  concludes,  'if  you  abominate  crimes,  stop 
the  triumph  of  this  impious  woman ;  prevent  this  most  unnatural 
mother  from  rejoicing  in  her  son's  blood.  If  you  love  virtue  and 
worth,  relieve  this  unfortunate  man,  who,  for  so  many  years,  has 
been  exposed  to  most  unjust  reproach  through  the  calumnies  raised 
against  him  by  Sassia,  Oppianicus,  and  all  their  adherents.  Better 
far  had  it  been  for  him,  to  have  ended  his  days  at  once  by  the  poison 
which  Oppianicus  had  prepared  for  him,  than  to  have  escaped  those 
snares,  if  he  must  still  be  oppressed  by  an  odium  which  I  have 
shown  to  be  so  unjust.  But  in  you  he  trusts,  in  your  clemency,  and 
your  equity,  that  now,  on  a  full  and  fair  hearing  of  this  cause,  you 
will  restore  him  to  his  honour ;  you  will  restore  him  to  his  friends 
and  fellow-citizens,  of  whose  zeal  and  high  estimation  of  him  you 
have  seen  such  strong  proofs ;  and  will  show,  by  your  decision,  that 
though  faction  and  calumny  may  reign  for  a  while  in  popular  meet- 
ings and  harangues,  in  trial  and  judgment,  regard  is  paid  to  the 
truth  only.' 

I  have  given  only  a  skeleton  of  this  oration  of  Cicero.  What  I 
principally  aimed  at,  was  to  show  his  disposition  and  method ;  his 
arrangement  of  facts,  and  the  conduct  and  force  of  some  of  his  main 
arguments.  But,  in  order  to  have  a  full  view  of  the  subject,  and  of 
che  art  with  which  the  orator  manages  it,  recourse  must  be  had  to 
the  original.  Few  of  Cicero's  orations  contain  a  greater  variety  of 
facts  and  argumentations,  which  renders  it  difficult  to  analyze  it  fully. 
But  for  this  reason  I  chose  it,  as  an  excellent  example  of  managing 
at  the  bar,  a  complex  and  intricate  cause,  with  order,  elegance,  and 
force. 

Q,UESTIO]VS. 

What  was  treated  of  in  the  last  lee- 1  There,  Avhat  have  they  not,  for  employ- 
lure  ?  Much  of  what  was  said  on  that  |  ing  the  arts  of  speech  ?  How  is  this  il- 


head  is  applicable  to  what ;  and  what 
is  the  consequence?  But,  as  all  that  was 
said  in  the  former  lecture,  must  not  be 
applied  to  it,  what  is  of  importance  ? 
In  the  first  place,  what  is  observed  ?  In 
popular  assemblies,  what  is  the  great 
object,  and  at  what  does  the  orator  aim? 
For  accomplishing  this  end,  what  is  in- 
cumbent o„  him  ?  At  the  bar,  what  is 
the  great  object,  and  there,  what  is  the 
speaker's  business;  and  to  what,  conse- 
quently, is  his  eloquence  addressed? 
Of  thfa  difference,  what  is  observed? 
In  the  second  place,  to  whom  dospeak- 
arf  at  the  bar   address  themselves  ? 


lustrated  ?  In  the  last  place,  what  do 
the  nature  and  management  of  the  sub- 
jects which  belong  to  the  bar,  require  ? 
How  is  this  difference  illustrated?  For 
these  reasons,  what  is  clear;  and  for 
similar  reasons,  of  what  must  we  be- 
ware? Why  is  it  necessary  to  warn 
young  lawyers  of  this  ?  What  is  the 
first  cause  to  which  this  was  owing  ? 
How  is  this  remark  illustrated  ?  What, 
consequently,  more  than  jurisprudence, 
was  the  study  of  those  who  were  to 
plead  causes?  What  does  Cicero  some- 
where say ;  and  even  what  opinion  pre- 
vailed? There  were  among  the  Romans 


LF,CT.   XXVIII.] 


QUESTIONS. 


312  a 


what  set  of  men ;  and  what  was  their 
office  ?  What  may  we  next  observe  ? 
How  is  this  remark  fully  illustrated? 
Hence,  what  consequences  followed; 
and  hence,  what  practices,  which  would 
oe  reckoned  theatrical  among  us,  were 
common  at  the  Roman  bar?  Why,  then, 
would  too  strict  an  imitation  of  Cicero's 
manner  of  pleading,  now  be  extremely 
injudicious  ?  As  he  may,  however,  still 
be  studied  to  great  advantage,  in  what 
ought  he  to  be  imitated'?  By  what 
imitations  of  him  would  a  pleader  ren- 
der himself  perfectly  ridiculous?  Be- 
fore descending  to  more  pa  ticular  di- 
rections concerning  the  eloquence  of  the 
bar,  of  what  does  our  author  take  no- 
tice ?  Of  this,  what  is  observed ;  and 
why?  Besides  previous  study,  and  a 
proper  stock  of  knowledge  attained, 
what  is  highly  material  to  tho  success 
of  every  pleader  ?  How  did  the  ancient 
rhetoricians  regard  this?  What  does 
Cicero  tell  us  on  this  subject?  Whom 
does  he  very  severely  censure ;  and 
with  what  does  he  tax  them  ?  To  the 
same  parpose,  what  is  done  by  Quinti- 
lian ;  and  what  does  he  again  and 
again  recommend  ?  Repeat  the  pas- 
sage. Suppose  an  advocate  to  be  thus 
prepared,  what  is  next  observed  ? 
What  inference  would  be  altogether 
wrong  ?  Though  the  manner  of  speak- 
ing be  changed,  yet  what  follows  ? 
From  what  consideration  does  it  ap- 
pear that,  perhaps,  there  is  no  scene 
of  public  speaking,  where  eloquence  is 
more  necessary  than  at  the  bar  ?  What 
does  the  dryness  and  subtilty  of  the 
subjects  generally  agitated  at  the  bar, 
require?  How  is  this  illustrated  ? 
What  is  no  small  encouragement  to 
eloquence,  at  the  bar?  To  what  is  he 
'ess  exposed  than  some  others?  Why 
is  he  sure  of  coming  forward  according 
to  his  merit  ?  What  may  be  done  for  a 
young  pleader,  by  his  friends?  Why 
will  a  reputation  resting  on  these  assist- 
ances, soon  fall  ?  What  must  be  laid 
down  for  a  first  principle  ?  Why  may 
a  little  play  to  the  imagination  be  some- 
times allowed ;  but  how  must  this  liber- 
ty be  taken  ?  How  is  the  speaker  who 
uses  a  florid  style  and  sparkling  manner 
heard?  What  is  their  effect?  What  is 
chiefly  to  be  studied  ?  Of  what  are  the 
gentlemen  of  this  profession  often  ac- 
cused ;  and  how  are  they  betrayed  in- 
jO  it?  What  therefore,  cannot  be  too 


I  much  recommended  to  tnose  who  are 
beginning  to  practice  at  the  bar?  To 
what  habit  should  they  form  them- 
selves? If  this  habit  be  once  acquired, 
what  will  be  the  consequence  ?  Where- 
as, what  will  be  the  consequence  of 
suffering  a  loose  and  negligent  style  to 
become  familiar?  What  is  a  capital 
property  in  speaking  at  the  bar ;  and 
in  what  two  things,  chiefly,  should  it 
be  shown  ?  What  is  of  the  utmost  con- 
sequence in  every  sort  of  oration ;  anu 
where  is  this  indispensable  ?  In  what, 
therefore,  cannot  too  much  pains  be 
taken ;  and  why  ?  With  respect  to  the 
conduct  of  narration  and  argument, 
what  only,  at  present,  is  observed  ? 
Why  .s  this  remark  made  ?  Whereas, 
by  cutting  off  all  superfluous  circum- 
stances in  his  recital,  what  effect  does 
he  produce  ?  Why  should  a  more  dif- 
fuse manner  in  argumentation  be  used 
at  the  bar,  than  on  some  ether  occa- 
sions ? 

When  the  pleader  comes  to  refute  the 
arguments  employed  by  his  adversary, 
why  should  he  not  do  them  injustice  ? 
Whereas,  what  will  be  the  effect  of 
stating  them  with  accuracy  and  can- 
dour ?  In  tin's  case,  what  are  they  natu- 
rally led  to  think  ?  To  what  is  the 
judge  thereby  inclined ;  and  what  re- 
mark follows  ?  When  may  wit  be  of 
service  at  the  bar?  Though  the  repu- 
tation of  wit  be  dazzlirw  do  a  young 
pleader,  yet  why  should  he  not  rest  his 
strength  upon  this  talent  ?  In  pleading 
a  cause,  what  is  always  of  use  ?  How 
is  this  remark  illustrated  ?  As  an  advo- 
cate personates  his  client,  and  stands  in 
his  place,  what  is  very  improper,  and 
has  a  bad  effect;  and  what  follows? 
At  the  same  time,  of  what  must  he 
beware;  why;  and  what  must  never 
be  forgotten?  What  is  scarcely  possible? 
How  is  tins  illustrated  ?  How  must  tins? 
opinion  of  honour  and  probity,  there- 
fore, be  preserved?  Though,  perhaps, 
the  nature  of  the  profession  may  ren  • 
der  it  difficult  to  carry  this  delicacy  to 
its  utmost  length;  yet  what  follows? 
Embarking  in  what  causes  will  he  al- 
ways decline ;  and  when  he  supports  a 
doubtful  one,  what  course  will  he  pur- 
sue? In  what  manner  does  our  author 
propose  further  to  illustrate  tins  sub- 
ject? What  oration  has  our  author 
chosen :  and  why?  What  is  the  subject 
of  the  oration?    Of  the  introduction 


312  b 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  XXIX 


what  is  observed  ?  How  does  it  begin ; 
and  what  were  these  two  parts?  What 
does  Cicero  propose?  On  what  docs  he 
make  several  proper  observations ;  and 
v»  iiat  does  he  acknowledge  ?  Begging 
a  patient  and  attentive  hearing,  of 
w  hat  does  he  assure  the  judges?  What 
reigns  throughout  tins  introduction  ? 
What  circumstances  naturally  raised 
strong  prejudices  against  Cicero's  client? 
What  was,  therefore,  the  first  step  to  be 
taken  by  the  orator ;  and  in  what  man- 
ner? What  rendered  this  plan  proper? 
In  executing  his  plan,  what  does  he 
do?  What  evidence  have  we  of  the 
abandoned  character  of  Sassia,  the 
mother  ?  What  was  the  fate  of  Meli- 
nus  ?  When  Oppianicus  himself  made 
his  addresses  to  her,  on  what  ground 
did  she  object  to  him?  Upon  the  remo- 
val of  this  objection,  what  followed  ? 
How  are  these  flagrant  deeds  painted 
by  Cicero?  As  Cluentius  could  no 
longer  live  on  terms  with  Sassia,  what 
followed?  What  does  Cicero  say  of 
Oppianicus?  Repeat,  fully,  the  history 
#f  the  trial.  Of  both  these  Prejudiced, 
what  is  observed ;  and  what  was  a  na- 
tural consequence?  What  was  pecu- 
liar to  this  prosecution  ?  By  what  argu- 
ments does  Cicero  defend  his  client 
airainst  this  heavy  charge  of  the 
Crimen  corrupt i  Judicii?  What  is 
the  effect  of  these  plausible  facts  and 
reasonino-s?  What  difficult  part  of  the 
orator's  business  still  remained  ?  To  all 
these  decisions,  how  does  Cicero  reply ; 
and  what  does  he  show  ?  At  length, 
Cicero  comes  to  reason  of  what ;  and 
of  what  does  he  take  advantage  ? 
Why  does  our  author  intsoduce  the 


following  passage  ?  Repeat  it  In  the 
latter  part  of  the  oration,  of  what  noes 
Cicero  treat?  Of  this,  what  is  observed? 
What  does  Cicero  here  show  ?  Of  the 
peroration  what  is  observed ;  and  on 
what  two  points  does  it  turn?  With  re- 
gard to  Sassia,  what  does  Cicero  do? 
To  the  character  of  Sassia,  what  does 
he  oppose  ;  and  what  does  he  produce? 
With  what  remarks  does  he  conclude? 
In  this  skeleton,  what  was  principally 
aimed  at  ?  In  order  to  have  a  full  view 
of  it,  to  what  must  recourse  be  had  ; 
and  why? 


ANALYSIS. 

1.  Eloquence  of  the  bar. 

A.  The  difference  between   it    and 

popular  eloquence. 

B.  Cicero's  and   Demosthenes'  ora- 

tions not  models  for  modern 
speakers  at  the  bar. 
c.  The  requisites  for  a  lawyer's  suc- 
cess. 

a.  A  profound  knowledge  of  his 

profession. 

b.  Eloquence  in  pleading. 

D.  Directions  for  speaking  at  the  bar. 

a.  To  be  calm  and  temperate. 

b.  Verbosity  to  be  avoided. 

c.  Distinctness  a  capital  property. 

d.  Conciseness  in  narration  requi- 

site. 

e.  Candidness  in  stating  an  oppo- 

nent's arguments. 
f.  A   proper   degree   of  warmth 
useful. 

2.  An  analysis  of  one  of  Cicero's  ora« 

tions. 


LECTURE  XXIX. 


ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  PULHT. 

Before  treating  of  the  structure  and  component  parts  of  a  regu- 
lar oration,  I  purposed  making  some  observations  on  the  peculiar 
strain,  the  distinguishing  characters,  of  each  of  the  three  great  kinds 
of  public  speaking.  1  have  already  treated  of  the  eloquence  of  po- 
pular assemblies,  and  of  the  eloquence  of  the  bar.  The  subject  which 
remains  for  this  lecture  is,  the  strain  and  spirit  of  that  eloquence 
which  is  suited  to  the  pulpit. 

Let  us  begin  with  considering  the  advantages  and  disadvantages 
which  belong  to  this  field  of  public  speaking.  The  pulpit  has  plain- 
ly several  advantages  peculiar  to  itself.     The  dignity  and  impor 


lect.xxix.]      ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  PULPIT.  313 

tance  of  its  subjects  must  be  acknowledged  superior  to  any  other. 
They  are  such  as  ought  to  interest  every  one,  and  can  be  brought 
home  to  every  man's  heart ;  and  such  as  admit,  at  the  same  time, 
both  the  highest  embellishment  in  describing,  and  the  greatest  ve 
hemence  and  warmth  in  enforcing  them.  The  preacher  has  also 
great  advantages  in  treating  his  subjects.  He  speaks  not  to  one  or 
a  few  judges,  but  to  a  large  assembly.  He  is  secure  from  all  inter- 
ruption. Pie  is  obliged  to  no  replies,  or  extemporaneous  efforts. 
He  chooses  his  theme  at  leisure ;  and  comes  to  the  public  with  all 
the  assistance  which  the  most  accurate  premeditation  can  give  him. 
But,  together  with  these  advantages,  there  are  also  peculiar  dif- 
ficulties that  attend  the  eloquence  of  the  pulpit.  The  preacher, 
it  is  true,  has  no  trouble  in  contending  with  an  adversary  ;  but  then, 
debate  and  contention  enliven  genius  and  procure  attention.  The 
pulpit  orator  is,  perhaps,  in  too  quiet  possession  of  his  field.  His 
subjects  of  discourse  are,  in  themselves,  noble  and  important;  but 
they  are  subjects  trite  and  familiar.  They  have,  for  ages,  employed 
so  many  speakers,  and  so  many  pens ;  the  public  ear  is  so  much  ac- 
customed to  them,  that  it  requires  more  than  an  ordinary  power 
of  genius  to  fix  attention.  Nothing  within  the  reach  of  art  is  more 
difficult,  than  to  bestow,  on  what  is  common,  the  grace  of  no- 
velty. No  sort  of  composition  whatever  is  such  a  trial  of  skill,  as 
where  the  merit  of  it  lies  wholly  in  the  execution  ;  not  in  giving 
any  information  that  is  new,  not  in  convincing  men  of  what  they 
did  not  believe ;  but  in  dressing  truths  which  they  knew,  and 
of  which  they  were'  before  convinced,  in  such  colours  as  may 
most  forcibly  affect  their  imagination  and  heart.*  It  is  to  be  con- 
sidered, too,  that  the  subject  of  the  preacher  generally  confines 
him  to  abstract  qualities,  to  virtues  and  vices;  whereas,  that  of 
other  popular  speakers  leads  them  to  treat  of  persons;  which  is  a 
subject  that  commonly  interests  the  hearers  more,  and  takes  faster 
hold  of  the  imagination.  The  preacher's  business  is  solely  to  make 
you  detest  the  crime;  the  pleader's,  to  make  you  detest  the  crimi- 
nal.    He  describes  a  living  person;  and  with  more  facility  rouses 

*  What  I  have  said  on  this  subject,  coincides  very  much  with  the  observations 
made  by  the  famous  M.  Bruyere,  in  his  M&urs  de  Siecle,  when  he  is  comparing  the 
eloquence  of  the  pulpit  to  that  of  the  bar.  '  L'eloquence  de  la  chaire,  en  ce  qui  y 
entre  d'humain,  &,  du  talent  de  l'orateur,  est  cachee,  connue  de  peu  de  peisonnes,  k. 
d'une  difficile  execution.  II  faut  marcher  par  des  chemins  battus,  dire  ce  qui  a  ete 
dit,  &l  ce  qui  Ton  prfevoit  que  vous  allez  dire :  les  matieres  sont  grandes,  mais  usees  k. 
triviales  ;  les  principes  surs,  mais  dont  les  auditeurs  penetrent  les  conclusions  d'une 
seule  vue  :  il  y  entre  des  sujets  qui  sont  sublimes,  mais  qui  pent  traiter  le  sublime' — 
Le  Predicateur  n'est  point  soutenu  commc  l'avocat  par  des  faits  toujours  nouveacx 
par  de  differens  evenemens,  par  des  aventures  inouies  ;  il  ne  s'exerce  point  sur  les 
questions  douteuses ;  il  ne  fait  point  valoir  les  violentes  conjectures,  &i  les  presomptions ; 
toutes  choses,  neanmoins,  qui  elevent  le  genie,  lui  donnant  de  la  force.  Side  l'etendue, 
&.  qui  contraign  jnt  bien  moins  l'eloquence,  qu'elles  ne  le  fixent,  &t  le  dirigent.  II  doi» 
au  contraire,  tirer  son  discours  d'une  source  commune,  Si  ou  tout  le  monde  puise  ;  h 
s'il  s'ecarte  de  ces  lieux  communs  il  n'est  plus  populaire  ;  il  est  abstrait  on  declamateur.' 
The  inference  which  he  draws  from  these  reflections  is  very  just:  'il  est  plus  ais6  de 
precher  que  de  plaider  ;  mais  plus  difficile  de  bien  precher  que  de  bien  plaider.'  I.es 
Caracteres,  ou  Mceurs  de  ce  Siecle,  p.  6M. 

40 


314  ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  PULPIT,     [lect.  xxix 

your  indignation.  From  these  causes,  it  comes  to  pass,  that  though 
we  have  a  great  number  of  moderately  good  preachers,  we  have, 
however,  so  few  that  are  singularly  eminent.  We  are  still  far  frorr 
perfection  in  the  art  of  preaching;  aud  perhaps  there  are  few  things, 
in  which  it  is  more  difficult  to  excel.*  The  object,  however,  is  no- 
ble, and  worthy,  upon  many  accounts,  of  being  pursued  with  zeal. 

It  may  porhaps  occur  to  some,  that  preaching  is  no  proper  sub- 
ject of  the  art  of  eloquence.  This,  it  may  be  said,  belongs  only 
to  human  studies  and  inventions:  but  the  truths  of  religion,  with 
the  greater  simplicity,  and  the  less  mixture  of  art  they  are  set 
forth,  are  likely  to  prove  the  more  successful.  This  objection  would 
have  weight,  if  eloquence  were  as  the  persons  who  make  such 
an  objection  commonly  take  it  to  be,  an  ostentatious  and  deceit- 
ful art,  the  study  of  words  and  of  plausibility,  only  calculated  to 
please,  and  to  tickle  the  ear.  But  against  this  idea  of  eloquence 
I  have  all  along  guarded.  True  eloquence  is  the  art  of  placing 
truth  in  the  most  advantageous  light  for  conviction  and  persuasion. 
This  is  what  every  good  man  who  preaches  the  gospel  not  only 
may,  but  ought  to  have  at  heart.  It  is  most  intimately  connected 
with  the  success  of  his  ministry ;  and  were  it  needful,  as  assuredly 
it  is  not,  to  reason  any  farther  on  this  head,  we  might  refer  to  the 
discourses  of  the  prophets  and  Apostles,  as  models  of  the  most  sublime 
and  persuasive  eloquence,  adapted  both  to  the  imagination  and  the 
passions  of  men. 

An  essential  requisite,  in  order  to  preach  well,  is,  to  have  a  just, 
and  at  the  same  time,  a  fixed  and  habitual  view  of  the  end  of  preach- 
ing. For  in  no  art  can  any  man  execute  well,  who  has  not  a 
just  idea  of  the  end  and  object  of  that  art.  The  end  of  all  preach- 
ing is,  to  persuade  men  to  become  good.  Every  sermon,  there- 
fore, should  be  a  persuasive  oration.  Not  but  that  the  preacher  is 
to  instruct  and  to  teach,  to  reason  and  argue.  All  pernasion,  as  I 
showed  formerly,  is  to  be  founded  on  conviction.  The  understand- 
ing must  always  be  applied  to  in  the  first  place,  in  order  to  make  a 
lasting  impression  on  the  heart:  and  he  who  would  work  on  men's 
passions,  or  influence  their  practice,  without  first  giving  them  just 
principles,  and  enlightening  their  minds,  is  no  better  than  a  mere 
declaimer.  He  may  raise  transient  emotions,  or  kindle  a  passing 
ardour,  but  can  produce  no  solid  or  lasting  effect.  At  the  same  time, 

*  What  I  say  here,  and  in  other  passages,  of  our  being  far  from  perfection  in  the 
art  of  preaching,  and  of  there  being  few  who  are  singularly  eminent  in  it,  is  to  be  al- 
ways understood  as  referring  to  an  ideal  view  of  the  perfection  of  this  art,  which  none 
perhaps,  since  the  days  of  the  Apostles,  ever  did,  or  ever  will  reach.  But  in  that  de- 
gree of  the  eloquence  of  the  pulpit,  which  promotes,  in  a  considerable  measjre,  the 
great  end  of  edilication,  and  gives  a  just  fitie  to  high  reputation  and  esteem,  there  are 
many  who  hold  a  very  honourable  rank.  I  agree  entirely  in  opinion  with  a  candid 
ludge  (Dr.  Campbell,  on  Rhetoric,  b.  i.  ch.  10.)  who  observes,  that  considering  how  rare 
the  talent  of  eloquence  is  among  men,  and  considering  all  the  disadvantages  under 
which  preachers  labour,  particularly  from  the  frequency  of  this  exercise,  joined  with 
the  other  duties  of  their  office,  to  which  fixed  pastors  are  obliged,  there  is  more  reason 
to  wonder  that  we  hear  so  many  instructive,  and  even  eloquent  sermons,  than  that  we 
hear  so  few 


leot.xxix.]  ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  PULPIT.  315 

it  must  be  remembered.,  that  all  the  preacher's  instructions  are  to 
be  of  the  practical  kind,  and  that  persuasion  must  ever  be  his  ulti- 
mate object.  It  is  not  to  discuss  some  abstruse  point,  that  he  as- 
cends the  pulpit;  it  is  not  to  illustrate  some  metaphysical  truth,  or 
to  inform  men  of  something  which  they  never  heard  before;  but  it 
is  to  make  them  better  men ;  it  is  to  give  them,  at  once,  clear  views 
and  persuasive  impressions  of  religious  truth.  The  eloquence  of 
the  pulpit, then,  must  be  popular  eloquence.  One  of  the  first  quali- 
ties of  preaching  is  to  be  popular;  not  in  the  sense  of  accommoda- 
tion to  the  humours  and  prejudices  of  the  people,  (which  tends  only 
to  make  a  preacher  contemptible,)  but,  in  the  true  sense  of  the 
word,  calculated  to  make  impression  on  the  people;  to  strike  and 
to  seize  their  hearts.  I  scruple  not  therefore  to  assert,  that  the  ab- 
stract and  philosophical  manner  of  preaching,  however  it  may  have 
sometimes  been  admired,  is  formed  upon  a  very  faulty  idea,  and 
deviates  widely  from  the  just  plan  of  pulpit  eloquence.  Rational, 
indeed,  a  p/eacher  ought  always  to  be;  he  must  give  his  audience 
clear  ideas  on  every  subject,  and  entertain  them  with  sense,  not 
with  sound  :  but  to  be  an  accurate  reasoner  will  be  small  praise,  if 
he  be  not  a  persuasive  speaker  also. 

Now,  if  this  be  the  proper  idea  of  a  sermon,  a  persuasive  oration, 
one  very  material  consequence  follows,  that  the  preacher  himself, 
in  order  to  be  successful,  must  be  a  good  man.  In  a  preceding  lec- 
ture I  endeavoured  to  show,  that  on  no  subject  can  any  man  be  tru- 
ly eloquent,  who  does  not  utter  the  "  verae  voces  ab  imo  pectore," 
who  does  not  speak  the  language  of  his  own  conviction  and  his  own 
feelings.  If  this  holds,  as  in  my  opinion  it  does,  in  other  kinds  of 
public  speaking,  it  certainly  holds  in  the  highest  degree  in  preach- 
ing. There,  it  is  of  the  utmost  consequence  that  the  speaker  firm- 
ly believe  both  the  truth  and  the  importance  of  those  principles 
which  he  inculcates  on  others;  and,  not  only  that  he  believe  them 
speculatively,  but  have  a  lively  and  serious  feeling  of  thern.  This 
will  always  give  an  earnestness  and  strength,  a  fervour  of  piety  to 
his  exhortations,  superior  in  its  effects  to  all  the  arts  of  studied  elo- 
quence ;  and,  without  it,  the  assistance  of  art  will  seldom  be  able  to 
conceal  the  mere  declaimer.  A  spirit  of  true  piety  would  prove  the 
most  effectual  guard  againt  those  errors  which  preachers  are  apt  to 
commit.  It  would  make  their  discourses  solid,  cogent,  and  useful ; 
it  would  prevent  those  frivolous  and  ostentatious  harangues,  which 
have  no  other  aim  than  merely  to  make  a  parade  of  speech,  or  amuse 
an  audience;  and  perhaps  the  difficulty  of  attaining  that  pitch  of 
habitual  piety  and  goodness,  which  the  perfection  of  pulpit  eloquf  nee 
would  require,  and  of  uniting  it  with  that  thorough  knowledge  of 
the  world,  and  those  other  talents  which  are  requisite  for  excelling 
in  the  pulpit,  is  one  of  the  great  causes  why  so  few  arrive  at  very 
high  eminence  in  this  sphere. 

The  chief  characteristics  of  the  eloquence  suited  to  the  pulpit,  as 
distinguished  from  the  other  kinds  of  public  speaking,  appear  to  me 
to  be  these  two,  gravity  and  warmth.  The  serious  n  tture  of  the  sub- 


316  ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  PULPIT,  [lect.  xxix 

jects  belonging  to  the  pulpit,  requires  gravity  ;  their  importance 
to  mankind,  requires  warmth.  It  is  far  from  being  either  easy  or 
common  to  unite  these  characters  of  eloquence.  The  grave,  when  it 
.s  predominant,  is  apt  to  run  into  a  dull  uniform  solemnity.  The 
warm,  when  it  wants  gravity,  borders  on  the  theatrical  and  light. 
The  ur.ion  of  the  two  must  be  studied  by  all  preachers  as  of  the  ut- 
most consequence,  both  in  the  composition  of  their  discourses,  and 
in  their  manner  of  delivery.  Gravity  and  warmth  united,  form  that 
character  of  preaching  which  the  French  call  Onct'wn  ;  the  affect- 
ing, penetrating,  interesting  manner,  flowing  from  a  strong  sensibi- 
lity of  heart  in  the  preacher  to  the  importance  of  those  truths  which 
he  delivers,  and  an  earnest  desire  that  they  may  make  full  impres- 
sion on  the  hearts  of  his  hearers. 

Next  to  a  just  idea  of  the  nature  and  object  of  pulpit  eloquence, 
the  point  of  greatest  importance  to  a  preacher,  is  a  proper  choice  of 
the  subjects  on  which  he  preaches.  To  give  rules  for  the  choice  of 
subjects  for  sermons,  belongs  to  the  theological  more  than  to  the 
rhetorical  chair ;  only  in  general,  they  should  be  such  as  appear  to 
the  preacher  to  be  the  most  useful,  and  the  best  accommodated  to 
the  circumstances  of  his  audience.  No  man  can  be  called  eloquent,, 
who  speaks  to  an  assembly  on  subjects,  or  in  a  strain,  which  none 
or  kw  of  them  comprehend.  The  unmeaning  applause  which  the 
ignorant  give  to  what  is  above  their  capacity,  common  sense  and. 
common  probity  must  teach  every  man  to  despise.  Usefulness  and 
true  eloquence  always  go  together;  and  no  man  can  long  be  reput- 
ed a  good  preacher,  who  is  not  acknowledged  to  be  an  useful  one. 

The  rules  which  relate  to  the  conduct  of  the  di3erent  parts  of? 
sermon,  the  introduction,  division,  argumentative,  and  pathetic 
parts,  I  reserve,  till  I  come  to  treat  of  the  conduct  of  a  discourse  in 
general;  but  some  rules  and  observations,  which  respect  a  sermon 
as  a  particular  species  of  composition,  I  shall  now  give,  and  I  hope 
they  may  be  of  some  use. 

The  first  which  I  shall  mention  is,  to  attend  to  the  unity  of  a  ser- 
mon. Unity  indeed  is  of  great  consequence  in  every  composition; 
but  in  other  discourses,  where  the  choice  and  direction  of  the  sub- 
iect  are  not  left  to  the  speaker,  it  may  be  less  in  his  power  to  pre- 
serve it.  In  a  sermon,  it  must  be  always  the  preacher's  own  fault 
if  he  transgress  it.  What  I  mean  by  unity  is,  that  there  should  be 
some  one  main  point  to  which  the  whole  strain  of  the  sermon  should 
refer.  It  must  not  be  a  bundle  of  different  subjects  strung  together, 
but  one  subject  must  predominate  throughout.  This  rule  is  found- 
ed on  what  we  call  experience,  that  the  mind  can  fully  attend  only 
to  one  capital  object  at  a  time.  By  dividing,  you  always  weaken 
the  impression.  Now  this  unity,  without  which  no  sermon  can  ei- 
ther have  much  beauty,  or  much  force,  does  not  require  that  there 
should  be  no  divisions  or  separate  heads  in  the  discourse,  or  that 
one  single  thought  only  should  be,  again  and  again,  turned  up  to 
the  hearers  in  d:tierent  lights.  It  is  not  to  be  understood  in  so  nar- 
row a  sense :  V  admits  of  some  variety ;  it  admits  of  under  parts 


lkct.  xxix.]   ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  PULPIT.  317 

and  appendages,  provided  always  that  so  much  union  and  connexion 
be  preserved,  as  ;o  make  the  whole  concur  in  some  one  impression 
upon  the  mind.  I  may  employ,  for  instance,  several  different  argu 
ments  to  enforce  the  love  of  God;  I  may  also  inquire,  perhaps, 
into  the  causes  of  the  decay  of  this  virtue;  still  one  great  object  is 
presented  to  the  mind :  but  if,  because  my  text  says,  i  He  that  loveth 
God  must  love  his  brother  also,'  I  should,  therefore,  mingle  in  one 
discourse,  arguments  for  the  love  of  God,  and  for  the  love  of  our 
neighbour,  I  should  offend  unpardonably  against  unity,  and  leave  a 
very  loose  and  confused  impression  on  the  hearers'  minds. 

In  the  second  place,  sermons  are  always  the  more  striking,  and 
commonly  the  more  useful,  the  more  precise  and  particular  the  sub 
ject  of  them  is.  This  follows,  in  a  great  measure,  from  what  I  was 
just  now  illustrating.  Though  a  general  subject  is  capable  of  being 
conducted  with  a  considerable  degree  of  unity,  yet  that  unity  can 
never  be  so  complete  as  in  a  particular  one.  The  impression  made 
must  always  be  more  undeterminate;  and  the  instruction  conveyed 
will  commonly,  too,  be  less  direct  and  convincing.  General  sub- 
jects, indeed,  such  as  the  excellency  of  the  pleasures  of  religion, 
are  often  chosen  by  young  preachers,  as  the  most  showy,  and  the 
easiest  to  be  handled;  and,  doubtless,  general  views  of  religion  are 
not  to  be  neglected,  as  on  several  occasions  they  have  great  propri- 
ety. But  these  are  not  the  subjects  most  favourable  for  producing 
the  high  effects  of  preaching.  They  fall  in  almost  unavoidably  with 
the  beaten  track  of  common-place  thought.  Attention  is  much 
more  commanded  by  seizing  some  particular  view  of  a  great  subject, 
some  single  interesting  topic,  and  directing  to  that  point  the  whole 
force  of  argument  and  eloquence.  To  recommend  some  one  grace 
or  virtue,  or  to  inveigh  against  a  particular  vice,  furnishes  a  subject 
not  deficient  in  unity  or  precision;  but  if  we  confine  ourselves  to 
that  virtue  or  vice  as  assuming  a  particular  aspect,  and  consider  it 
as  it  appears  in  certain  characters,  or  affects  certain  situations  in 
life,  the  subject  becomes  still  more  interesting.  The  execution  is, 
I  admit,  more  difficulty  but  the  merit  and  the  effect  are  higher. 

In  the  third  place,  never  study  to  say  all  that  can  be  said  upon  a 
subject;  no  error  is  greater  than  this.  Select  the  most  useful,  the 
most  striking,  and  persuasive  topics, which  the  text  suggests,  and 
rest  the  discourse  upon  these.  If  the  doctrines  which  ministers  of 
the  Gospel  preach  were  altogether  new  to  their  hearers,  it  might  be 
requisite  for  them  to  be  exceedingly  full  on  every  particular,  lest 
there  should  be  any  hazard  of  their  not  affording  complete  informa- 
tion. But  it  is  much  less  for  the  sake  of  information  than  of  per- 
suasion, that  discourses  are  delivered  from  the  pulpit;  and  nothing 
is  more  opposite  to  persuasion,  than  an  unnecessary  and  tedious  ful- 
ness. There  are  always  some  things  which  the  preacher  may  sup- 
pose to  be  known,  and  some  things  which  he  may  only  slightly 
touch.  If  he  seek  to  omit  nothing  which  his  subject  suggests,  it  will 
unavoidably  happen  that  he  will  encumber  it,  and  weaken  its  force. 

In  studying  a  sermon,  he  ought  to  place  himself  in  the  situation 
2Z 


818  ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  PULPI1     [lect.  xxtx 

of  a  serious  hearer.  Let  him  suppose  the  subject  addressed  to  him* 
self:  let  him  consider  what  views  of  it  would  strike  him  most;  what 
arguments  would  be  most  likely  to  persuade  him;  what  parts  of  it 
would  dwell  most  upon  his  mind.  Let  these  be  employed  as  his 
principal  materials;  and  in  these,  it  is  most  likely  his  genius  will 
exert  itself  with  the  greatest  vigour.  The  spinning  and  wire-draw- 
ing mode,  which  is  not  uncommon  among  preachers,  enervates  the 
noblest  truths.  It  may  indeed  be  a  consequence  of  observing  the 
rule  which  I  am  now  giving,  that  fewer  sermons  will  be  preached 
upon  one  text  than  is  sometimes  done  ;  but  this  will,  in  my  opinion, 
be  attended  with  no  disadvantage.  I  know  no  benefit  that  arises 
from  introducing  a  whole  system  of  religious  truth  under  every  text 
The  simplest  and  most  natural  method  by  far,  is  to  choose  that 
view  of  a  subject  to  which  the  text  principally  leads,  and  to  dwell 
no  longer  on  the  text,  than  is  sufficient  for  discussing  the  subject  in 
that  view,  which  can  commonly  be  done,  with  sufficient  profound- 
ness and  distinctness  in  one  or  a  few  discourses :  for  it  is  a  very  false 
notion  to  imagine,  that  they  always  preach  the  most  profoundly,  or 
go  the  deepest  into  a  subject,  who  dwell  on  it  the  longest.  On  the 
contrary,  that  tedious  circuit,  which  some  are  ready  to  take  in  all 
their  illustrations,  is  very  frequently  owing,  either  to  their  want  of 
discernment  for  perceiving  what  is  most  important  in  the  subject,  or 
to  their  want  of  ability  for  placing  it  in  the  most  proper  point  of  view. 

In  the  fourth  place,  study,  above  all  things,  to  render  your  in- 
structions interesting  to  the  hearers.  This  is  the  great  trial  and 
mark  of  true  genius  for  the  eloquence  of  the  pulpit;  for  nothing  is 
so  fatal  to  success  in  preaching,  as  a  dry  manner.  A  dry  sermon 
can  never  be  a  good  one.  In  order  to  preach  in  an  interesting 
manner,  much  will  depend  upon  the  delivery  of  a  discourse;  for 
the  manner  in  which  a  man  speaks,  is  of  the  utmost  consequence 
for  affecting  his  audience,  but  much  will  also  depend  on  the  com- 
position of  the  discourse.  Correct  language,  and  elegant  description, 
are  but  the  secondary  instruments  of  preaching  in  an  interesting 
manner.  The  great  secret  lies  in  bringing  home  all  that  is  spoken 
lo  the  hearts  of  the  hearers,  so  as  to  make  every  man  think  that  the 
preacher  is  addressing  him  in  particular.  For  this  end,  let  him 
avoid  all  intricate  reasonings;  avoid  expressing  himself  in  general 
speculative  propositions,  or  laying  down  practical  truths  in  an  ab- 
stract metaphysical  manner.  As  much  as  possible,  the  discourse 
ought  to  be  carried  on  in  the  strain  of  direct  address  to  the  au- 
■dience;  not  in  the  strain  of  one  writing  an  essay,  but  of  one  speak- 
ing to  a  multitude,  and  studying  to  mix  what  is  called  application, 
or  what  has  an  immediate  reference  to  practice,  with  the  doctrinal 
and  didactic  parts  of  the  sermon. 

It  will  be  of  much  advantage  to  keep  always  in  view  the  different 
ages,  characters,  and  conditions  of  men,  and  to  accommodate  direc- 
tions and  exhortations  to  these  different  classes  of  hearers.  When- 
ever you  bring  forth  what  a  man  feels  to  touch  his  own  character 
or  to  suit  his  own  circumstances,  you  are  sure  of  interesting  him 


lect.  xxix.]  ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  PULPIT.  319 

No  study  is  more  necessary  for  this  purpose,  than  the  study  of  hu- 
man life,  and  the  human  heart.  To  be  able  to  unfold  the  heart,  and 
to  discover  a  man  to  himself,  in  a  light  in  which  he  never  saw  his 
own  character  before,  produces  a  wonderful  effect.  As  long  as  the 
preacher  hovers  in  a  cloud  of  general  observations,  and  descends 
not  to  trace  the  particular  lines  and  features  of  manners,  the  audi- 
ence are  apt  to  think  themselves  unconcerned  in  the  description. 
It  is  the  striking  accuracy  of  the  moral  characters  that  gives  the 
chief  power  and  effect  to  a  preacher's  discourse.  Hence,  examples 
founded  on  historical  facts,  and  drawn  from  real  life,  of  which  kind 
the  scriptures  afford  many,  always,  when  they  are  well  chosen,  com- 
mand high  attention.  No  favourable  opportunity  of  introducing  these 
should  be  omitted.  They  correct,  in  so$eye  degree,  that  disadvan- 
tage to  which  I  before  observed  preaching'1  is  subject,  of  being  con- 
fined to  treat  of  qualities  in  the  abstract,  not  of  persons,  and  place 
the  weight  and  reality  of  religious  truths  in  the  most  convincing 
light.  Perhaps  the  most  beautiful,  and  among  the  most  useful  ser- 
mons of  any,  though,  indeed,  the  most  difficult  in  composition,  are 
such  as  are  wholly  characteristical,  or  founded  on  the  illustration  of 
some  peculiar  character,  or  remarkable  piece  of  history,  in  the  sa- 
cred writings  ;  by  perusing  which,  one  can  trace,  and  lay  open,  some 
of  the  most  secret  windings  of  man's  heart.  Other  topics  of  preach- 
ing have  been  much  beaten  ;  but  this  is  a  field,  which,  wide  in  it- 
self, has  hitherto  been  little  explored  by  the  composers  of  sermons, 
and  possesses  all  the  advantages  of  being  curious,  new,  and  highly 
useful.  Bishop  Butler's  sermon  on  the  Character  of  Balaam,  will 
give  an  idea  of  that  sort  of  preaching  which  I  have  in  my  eye. 

In  the  fifth  and  last  place,  let  me  add  a  caution  against  taking  the 
model  of  preaching  from  particular  fashions  that  chance  to  have  the 
vogue.  These  are  torrents  that  swell  to-day,  and  will  have  spent 
themselves  by  to-morrow.  Sometimes  it  is  the  taste  of  poetical 
preaching,  sometimes  of  philosophical,  that  has  the  fashion  on  its 
side ;  at  one  time  it  must  be  all  pathetic,  at  another  all  argumentative, 
according  as  some  celebrated  preacher  has  set  the  example.  Each 
of  these  modes,  in  the  extreme,  is  very  faulty ;  and  he  who  con- 
forms himself  to  any  of  them,  will  both  cramp  genius,  and  corrupt 
it.  It  is  the  universal  taste  of  mankind  which  is  subject  to  no  such 
changing  modes,  that  alone  is  entitled  to  possess  any  authority ; 
and  this  will  never  give  its  sanction  to  any  strain  of  preaching, 
nut  what  is  founded  on  human  nature,  connected  with  usefulness, 
adapted  to  the  proper  idea  of  a  sermon,  as  a  serious,  persuasive  ora- 
tion, delivered  to  a  multitude,  in  order  to  make  them  better  men. 
Let  a  preacher  form  himself  upon  this  standard,  and  keep  it  close  in 
his  eye,  and  he  will  be  in  a  much  surer  road  to  reputation,  and  suc- 
cess at  last,  than  by  a  servile  compliance  with  any  popular  taste  or 
transient  humour  of  his  hearers.  Truth  and  good  sense  are  firm, 
and  will  establish  themselves  ;  mode  and  humour  are  feeble  ana 
fluctuating.  Let  him  never  follow,  implicitly,  any  one  example 
or  become  a  servile  imitator  of  any  preacher,  however  much  adroii 


S20  ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  PULPIT,  [lect.  xxix 

ed.  From  various  examples  he  may  pick  up  much  for  his  improve- 
ment: some  he  may  prefer  to  the  rest;  but  the  servility  of  imita- 
tion extinguishes  all  genius,  or  rather  is  a  proof  of  the  entire  want 
of  genius. 

With  respect  to  style,  that  which  the  pulpit  requires,  must  cer- 
tainly, in  the  first  place,  be  very  perspicuous.  As  discourses  spo- 
ken there,  arc  calculated  for  the  instruction  of  all  sorts  of  hearers, 
plainness  and  simplicity  should  reign  in  them.  All  unusual,  swoln, 
or  high-sounding  words,  should  be  avoided;  especially  all  words 
that  are  merely  poetical,  or  merely  philosophical.  Young  preach- 
ers are  apt  to  be  caught  with  the  glare  of  these  ;  and  in  young  com- 
posers the  error  may  be  excusable :  but  they  may  be  assured  that  it 
is  an  error,  and  proceeds  from  their  not  having  yet  acquired  a  cor- 
rect taste.  Dignity  of  expression,  indeed,  the  pulpit  requires  in  a 
high  degree;  nothing  that  is  mean  or  grovelling,  no  low  or  vulgar 
phrases, ought,  on  any  account,  to  be  admitted.  But  this  dignity  is 
perfectly  consistent  with  simplicity.  The  words  employed  may 
be  all  plain  words,  easily  understood,  and  in  common  use;  and  yet 
the  style  may  be  abundantly  dignified,  and  at  the  same  time  very 
lively  and  animated  ;  for  a  lively  and  animated  style  is  extremely 
suited  to  the  pulpit.  The  earnestness  which  a  preacher  ought  to  feel, 
and  the  grandeur  and  importance  of  his  subjects,justify,  and  often 
require,  warm  and  glowing  expressions.  He  not  only  may  employ 
metaphors  and  comparisons,  button  proper  occasions,  may  apostro- 
phise the  saint  or  the  sinner;  may  personify  inanimate  objects, 
break  out  into  bold  exclamations,  and,  in  general,  has  the  command 
of  the  most  passionate  figures  of  speech.  But  on  this  subject,  ol 
the  proper  use  and  management  of  figures,  I  have  insisted  so  fully 
in  former  lectures,  that  I  have  no  occasion  now  to  give  particulai 
directions;  unless  it  be  only  to  recall  to  mind  that  most  capital  rule, 
never  to  employ  strong  figures,  or  a  pathetic  style,  except  in  cases 
where  the  subject  leads  to  them,  and  where  the  speaker  is  impelled 
to  the  use  of  them  by  native  unaffected  warmth. 

The  language  of  sacred  scripture,  properly  employed,  is  a  great 
ornament  to  sermons.  It  may  be  employed,  either  in  the  way  of 
quotation,  or  allusion.  Direct  quotations,  brought  from  scripture, 
in  order  to  support  what  the  preacher  inculcates,  both  give  authority 
to  his  doctrine,  and  render  his  discourse  more  solemn  and  vener* 
ble.  Allusions  to  remarkable  passages,  or  expressions  of  scripture, 
when  introduced  with  propriety,  have  generally  a  pleasing  effect. 
They  afford  the  preacher  a  fund  of  metaphorical  expression,  which 
no  other  composition  enjoys,  and  by  means  of  which  he  can  vary 
and  enliven  his  style.  But  he  must  take  care  that  all  such  alhsions 
be  natural  and  easy ;  for  if  they  seem  forced,  they  approach  to  the 
nature  of  conceits.* 

*  Bishop  Sherlock,  when  showing  that  the  views  of  reason  have  been  enlarged, 
and  the  principles  of  natural  religion  illustrated,  by  the  discoveries  of  Christianity 
attacks  unbelievers  for  the  abuse  they  make  of  these  advantages,  in  the  following 
manner :  'What  a  return  do  we  make  for  those  blessings  we  have  received1   How 


lect.xxix.]  ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  PULPIT.  321 

In  a  sermon,  no  points  or  conceits  should  appear,  no  affected 
smartness  and  quaintness  of  expression.  These  derogate  much 
from  the  dignity  of  the  pulpit ;  and  give  to  a  preacher  the  air  of 
foppishness,  which  he  ought,  above  all  things,  to  shun.  It  is  rather 
a  strong,  expressive  style,  than  a  sparkling  one,  that  is  to  be  studied. 
,  But  we  must  be  aware  of  imagining,  that  we  render  style  strong  or 
expressive,  by  a  constant  and  multiplied  use  of  epithets.  This  is  a 
great  error.  Epithets  have  often  great  beaut)r  and  force.  But  ii 
we  introduce  them  into  every  sentence,  and  string  many  of  them 
together  to  one  object,  in  place  of  strengthening,  we  clog  and  en- 
feeble style;  in  place  of  illustrating  the  image,  we  render  it  confus- 
ed and  indistinct.  He  that  tells  me,  'of  this  perishing,  mutable, 
and  transitory  world ;'  by  all  these  three  epithets,  does  not  give 
me  so  strong  an  idea  of  what  he  would  convey,  as  if  he  had  used  one 
of  them  with  propriety.  I  conclude  this  head  with  an  advice,  never 
to  have  what  may  be  called  a  favourite  expression;  for  it  shows  af- 
fectation, and  becomes  disgusting.  Let  not  any  expression  which  is 
remarkable  for  its  lustre  or  beauty,  occur  twice  in  the  same  dis- 
course. The  repetition  of  it  betrays  a  fondness  to  shine,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  carries  the  appearance  of  a  barren  invention. 

As  to  the  question,  whether  it  be  most  proper  to  write  sermons 
fully,  and  commit  them  accurately  to  memory,  or  to  study  only  the 
matter  and  thoughts,  and  trust  the  expression,  in  part  at  least,  to  the 
delivery?  I  am  of  opinion,  that  no  universal  rule  can  here  be  given. 
The  choice  of  either  of  these  methods  must  be  left  to  preachers,  ac- 
cording to  their  different  genius.  The  expressions  which  come 
warm  and  glowing  from  the  mind,  during  the  fervour  of  pronun- 
ciation, will  often  have  a  superior  grace  and  energy  to  those  which 
are  studied  in  the  retirement  of  the  closet.  But  then,  this  fluency 
and  power  of  expression  cannot,  at  all  times,  be  deoended  upon, 
even  by  those  of  the  readiest  genius  ;  and  by  many,  can  at  no  time 
be  commanded,  when  overawed  by  the  presence  of  an  audience. 
It  is  proper  therefore  to  begin,  at  least,  the  practice  of  preaching, 
with  writing  as  accurately  as  possible.  This  is  absolutely  necessa- 
ry in  the  beginning,  in  order  to  acquire  the  power  and  habit  of 
correct  speaking,  nay,  also  of  correct  thinking,  upon  religious  sub- 
jects. I  am  inclined  to  go  further,  and  to  say  that,  it  is  pro- 
per not  only  to  begin  thus,  but  also  to  continue,  as  long  as  the  ha- 
bits of  industry  last,  in  the  practice  both  of  writing,  and  commit- 
disrespectfully  do  we  treat  the  Gospel  of  Christ,  to  which  we  owe  that  clear  light 
both  of  reason  and  nature,  which  we  now  enjoy,  when  we  endeavour  to  set  up  reason 
and  nature  in  opposition  to  it  ?  ought  the  withered  hand  which  Christ  has  restored  and 
made  whole,  to  be  lifted  up  against  him  :'  Vol.  i.  Disc.  i.  This  allusion  to  a  noted 
miracle  of  our  Lord's,  appears  to  me  happ}'  and  elegant.  Dr.  Seed  is  remarkably 
fond  of  allusions  to  scripture  style  ;  but  he  sometimes  employs  such  as  are  too  fanciful 
and  strained.  As  when  he  says,  (Serm.  iv.)  "No  one  great  virtue  will  c->me  single: 
the  virtues  thai  be  her  fellows  iliII  bear  Iter  company  icilh  joy  and  gladness  :"  alludingto 
a  passage  in  the  XLVth  Psaim,  which  relates  to  the  virgins,  the  companions  of  the  king's 
daughter.  And  (Serin,  xiii.)  having  said,  that  the  universities  have  justly  been  called 
the  eyes  of  the  nation,  he  adds,  and  if  the  eyes  of  the  nation  be  evil,  the  whole  body  of 
u  must  befall  of  darkness. 

41 


322  ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  PULPIT,  [lect.  xxix. 

ting  to  memory.  Relaxation  in  this  particular  is  so  common,  ana 
so  ready  to  grow  upon  most  speakers  in  the  pulpit,  that  there  is 
little  occasion  for  giving  any  cautions  against  the  extreme  of  over 
doing  in  accuracy. 

Of  pronunciation  or  delivery,  I  am  hereafter  to  treat  apart.  All 
that  I  shall  now  say. upon  this  head  is,  that  the  practice  of  reading 
sermons,  is  one  of  the  greatest  obstacles  to  the  eloquence  of  the  pul 
pit  in  Great  Britain,  where  alone  this  practice  prevails.  No  dis 
course,  which  is  designed  to  be  persuasive,  can  have  the  same  force 
when  read,  as  when  spoken.  The  common  people  all  feel  this,  and 
their  prejudice  against  this  practice  is  not  without  foundation  in  na- 
ture. What  is  gained  hereby  in  point  of  correctness,  is  not  equal, 
I  apprehend,  to  what  is  lost  in  point  of  persuasion  and  force.  They, 
whose  memories  are  not  able  to  retain  the  whole  of  a  discourse, 
might  aid  themselves  considerably  by  short  notes  lying  before 
them,  which  would  allow  them  to  preserve,  in  a  great  measure,  the 
freedom  and  ease  of  one  who  speaks. 

The  French  and  English  writers  of  sermons  proceed  upon  very 
different  ideas  of  the  eloquence  of  the  pulpit ;  and  seem  indeed  to 
have  split  it  betwixt  them.  A  French  sermon,  is  for  most  part,  a 
warm,  animated  exhortation;  an  English  one, is  a  piece  of  cool,  in- 
structive reasoning.  The  French  preachers  address  themselves 
chiefly  to  the  imagination  and  the  passions;  the  English,  almost 
solely  to  the  understanding.  It  is  the  union  of  these  two  kinds  of 
composition,  of  the  French  earnestness  and  warmth,  with  the  Eng 
lish  accuracy  and  reason, that  would  form,  according  to  my  idea,  the 
model  of  a  perfect  sermon.  A  French  sermon  would  sound  in  our 
ears  as  a  florid,  and,  often,  as  an  enthusiastic  harangue.  The  cen- 
sure which,  in  fact,  the  French  critics  pass  on  the  English  preach- 
ers is,  that  they  are  philosophers  and  logicians,  but  not  orators.* 
The  defects  of  most  of  the  French  sermons  are  these  :  from  a  mode 
that  prevails  among  them  of  taking  their  text  from  the  lesson  of  the 
day,  the  connexion  of  the  text  with  the  subject  is  often  unnatural 
and  forced  ;t  their  applications  of  scripture  are  fanciful,  rather  than 
instructive:  their  method  is  stiff  and  cramped,  by  their  practice  of 
dividing  their  subject  always  either  into  three,  or  two  main  points; 
and  their  composition  is  in  general  too  diffuse,  and  consists  rather 
of  a  few  thoughts  spread  out,  and  highly  wrought  up,  than  of  a 
rich  variety  of  sentiments.  Admitting,  however,  all  these  defects, 
il  cannot  be  denied,  that  their  sermons  are  formed  upon  the  idea  of 
a  persuasive  popular  oration ;  and  therefore,  I  am  of  opinion,  they 
rna3r  be  read  with  benefit. 

*   '  Les  Sermons  sont  suivant  notre  mcthode,  de  vrais  discours  oraioires  ;  &.  non 
pas,  comme  chez  les  Anglois,  des  discussions  metaphysiqiies  plus  convenabies  a  unc 
Acadam.e,  qu'aux  Assemblies  populaires  qui  se  Torment  dans  nos  temples,  et  qu'il 
sagit  d'.nstruire  des  devoirs  du  Chretianisnie,  d'encourager,  de  consoler,  d'edifier.' 
Rhetorique  Franchise,  par  M.  Crevier,  torn.  I.  p.  134. 

t  One  of  Masillon's  best  sermons,  that  on  the  coldness  and  languor  with  which 
Christians  perfrrm  the  duties  of  religion,  is  preached  from  Luke  iv.  18.  And  ne  arost 
out  of  lit e  synagogue,  and  entered  inio  Simon's  house  ;  and  Simon's  wife's  molhei  win 
taken  ill  with  a  great  leeer. 


lect.  xxix.]  ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  PULPIT.  323 

Among  the  French  Protestant  divines,  Saurin  is  the  most  distin- 
guished; he  is  copious,  eloquent,  and  devout,  though  too  ostenta- 
tious in  his  manner.  Among  the  Roman  C#rholics,  the  two  most 
eminent  are  Bourdaloue  and  Massillon.  It  is  a  subject  of  dispute 
among  the  French  critics,  to  which  of  these  the  preference  is  due, 
and  each  of  them  has  his  partizans.  To  Bourdaloue,  they  attribute 
more  solidity  and  close  reasoning;  to  Massillon,  a  more  pleasing 
and  engaging  manner.  Bourdaloue  is,  indeed,  a  great  reasoner, 
and  inculcates  his  doctrines  with  much  zeal,  piety,  and  earnest- 
ness; but  his  style  is  verbose,  he  is  disagreeably  full  of  quotations 
from  the  fathers,  and  he  wants  imagination.  Massillon  has  more 
grace,  more  sentiment,  and,  in  my  opinion,  every  way  more  genius. 
He  discovers  much  knowledge  both  of  the  world  and  of  the  human 
heart;  he  is  pathetic  and  persuasive;  and,  upon  the  whole,  is  per- 
haps the  most  eloquent  writer  of  sermons  which  modern  times 
have  produced.* 


*  In  order  to  give  an  idea  of  that  kind  of  eloquence  which  is  employed  by  the 
French  preachers,  I  shall  insert  a  passage  from  Massillon,  which  in  the  Encyclopedic, 
(article,  Eloquence)  is  extolled  by  Voltaire,  who  was  the  author  of  that  article,  as  a 
chef  d'oeuvre,  equal  to  any  thing  of  which  either  ancient  or  modern  times  can  boast. 
The  subject  of  the  sermon  is,  the  small  number  of  those  who  shall  be  saved.  The 
strain  of  the  whole  discourse  is  extremely  serious  and  animated;  but  when  the  orator 
came  to  the  passage  which  follows,  Voltaire  informs  us,  that  the  whole  assembly  were 
moved ;  that  by  a  sort  of  involuntary  motion,  they  started  up  from  their  seats,  and  that 
such  murmurs  of  surprise  and  acclamations  arose  as  disconcerted  the  speaker,  though 
they  increased  the  effect  of  his  discourse. 

'  Je  m'arrete  a  vous,  mes  freres,  qui  etes  ici  assembles.  Je  ne  parle  plus  du  reste 
des  homines  :  je  vous  regarde  comme  si  vous  etiez  seuls  sur  la  terre:  voici  la  pensoe 
qui  m'occupe  Si  qui  m'epouvante.  Je  suppose  que  c'est  ici  votre  derniere  heure,  et  la 
fin  de  l'univers  ;  que  les  cieux  vont  s'ouvrir  sur  vos  tetes.  Jesus  Christ  paroitre  dans 
sa  gloire  au  milieu  de  ce  temple,  et  que  vous  n'y  etes  assemblies  que  pour  l'attendre, 
comme  des  crimlnels  tremblans,  a  qui  Ton  va  prononcer,  ou  un  sentence  de  grace,  ou 
tun  arret  du  mort  eternelle.  Car  vous  avez  beau  vous  flatter ;  vous  mourez  tels  que 
vous  etes  aujourd'hui.  Tons  ces  desirs  de  changement  qui  vous  amusent,  vous  amu- 
seror.t  jusqu'au  lit  de  la  mort :  c'est  1'experience  de  tous  les  siecles.  Tout  ce  que  vous 
trouverez  alors  en  vous  de  nouveau,  sera  peut-etre  un  compte  plus  grand  que  celui  que 
vous  auriez  aujourd'hui  a  rendre;  et  sur  ce  que  vous  seriez,  si  Ton  venoit  vous  juger 
dans  ce  moment,  vous  pouvez  presque  decider  ce  que  vous  arrivera  au  sortir  de  la  vie. 

'  Or.  je  vous  le  demande,  etje  vous  le  demande  frappe  de  terreur,  ne  separant  pas 
en  ce  point  mon  sort  du  votre,  et  ine  mettant  dans  la  meme  disposition  oil  je  souhaite 
que  vous  entriez  ;  je  vous  demande,  done,  si  Jesus  Christ  paroissoit  dans  ce  temple, au 
milieu  de  cette  assemblee  ;  la  plus  auguste  de  l'univers,  pour  nous  juger,  pour  faire  le 
terrible  discernement  des  boucs  et  des  brebis,  croyez  vous  que  le  plus  grand  nombre 
de  tout  ce  que  nous  sommes  ici,  fuc  place-  a  la  droite?  Croyez  vous  que  les  choses  du 
moins  fussent  egales  ?  croyez  vous  qu'il  s'y  trouvat  senlement  dix  justes,  que  le  Seism 
eur  ne  pent  trcuver  autrefois  en  cinq  villes  toutes  entieres  ?  Je  vous  le  demande;  votis 
Vignorez,  etje  l'ignore  moi-meme.  Vousseul,  O  mon  Dieu !  connoissez  ceux  qui  vous  ao- 
partiennent. — Mes  fre.res,  notre  perte  est  presque  assurer,  et  nous  n'y  pensons  pas 
Quand  meme  dans  cette  terrible  separation  qui  se  fera  un  jour,  il  ne  devroit  y  avoir 
qu'un  seul  pecheur  de  cet  assemblee  du  cAt6  des  reprouves,  et  qu'une  voix  du  ciel  vieu 
droit  nous  en  assurer  dans  ce  temple,  sans  le  designer ;  qui  de  nous  ne  craindroit  d'etre 
de  malheureux  ?  qui  de  nous  ne  retomberoit  d'abord,  sur  sa  conscience,  pour  examine' 
si  ses  crimes  n'ont  pas  merit6  ce  chatiment  ?  qui  de  nous,  saisie  de  frayeur,  ne  demnn- 
deroit  pas  a  Jesus  Christ  comme  autrefois  les  ap6tres  ;  Seigneur,  ne  seroit  ce  pas  moi  ? 
Somines  nous  sages,  mes  chers  auditeurs  ?  peut-etre  que  parmi  tous  ceux  qui  m'enten- 
dent,  il  ne  se  trouvera  pas  dix  justes  ;  peut-etre  s'en  trouvera-t-il  encore  moins.  Que 
sai-je,  O  mon  Dieu  !  je  n'ose  regarder  d'un  ceil  fixe  les  abymes  de  vos  jugemens,  et  de 
votre  justice  ;  peut-etre  ne  s'en  trouvera-t-il  qu'an  seul ;  et  ce  danger  ne  vous  louche 


324  ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  PULPIT,  [lect.  xxix. 

During  the  period  that  preceded  the  restoration  of  King  Cnarles 
II.  the  sennons  of  the  English  divines  ahounded  with  scholastic 
casuistical  theology.  They  were  full  of  minute  divisions  and 
subdivisions,  and  scraps  of  learning  in  the  didactic  part;  but  to 
these  wei  j  joined  very  warm,  pathetic  addresses  to  the  consciences 
of  the  hearers,  in  the  applicatory  part  of  the  sermon.  Upon  the 
restoration,  preaching  assumed  a  more  correct  and  polished  form. 
It  became  disencumbered  from  the  pedantry  and  scholastic  divi- 
sions of  the  sectaries ;  but  it  threw  out  also  their  warm  and  pa- 
thetic addresses,  and  established  itself  wholly  upon  the  model 
of  cool  reasoning  and  rational  instruction.  As  the  dissenters 
from  the  church  continued  to  preserve  somewhat  of  the  old 
strain  of  preaching,  this  led  the  established  clergy  to  depart  the 
farther  from  it.  Whatever  was  earnest  and  passionate,  either 
in  the  composition  or  delivery  of  sermons,  was  reckoned  enthu- 
siastic and  fanatical;  and  hence  that  argumentative  manner,  bor- 
dering on  the  dry  and  unpersuasive,  which  is  too  generally  the 
character  of  English  sermons.  Nothing  can  be  more  correct  upon 
that  model,  than  many  of  them  are  ;  but  the  model  itself  on  which 
they  are  formed,  is  a  confined  and  imperfect  one.  Dr.  Clark,  for 
instance,  every  where  abounds  in  good  sense,  and  the  most  clear 
and  accurate  reasoning;  his  applications  of  scripture  are  pertinent; 
his  style  is  always  perspicuous,  and  often  elegant;  he  instructs  and 
he  convinces  ;  in  what  then  is  he  deficient?  In  nothing,  except  in 
the  power  of  interesting  and  seizing  the  heart.  He  shows  you 
what  you  ought  to  do  ;  but  he  excites  not  the  desire  of  doing  it : 
he  treats  man  as  if  he  were  a  being  of  pure  intellect  without  ima- 
gination or  passions.  Archbishop  Tillotson's  manner  is  more  free 
and  warm,  and  he  approaches  nearer  than  most  of  the  English 
divines  to  the  character  of  popular  speaking.  Hence  he  is,  to  this 
day,  one  of  the  best  models  we  have  for  preaching.  We  must  not 
indeed  consider  him  in  the  light  of  a  perfect  orator ;  his  composi- 
tion is  too  loose  and  remiss  ;  his  style  too  feeble,  and  frequently  too 
flat,  to  deserve  that  high  character:  but  there  is  in  some  of  his 
sermons  so  much  warmth  and  earnestness,  and  through  them  all 
there  runs  so  much  ease  and  perspicuity,  such  a  vein  of  good  sense 
and  sincere  piety,  as  justly  entitle  him  to  be  held  as  eminent  a 
preacher  as  England  has  produced. 

point,  mon  cher  auditeur  ?  et  vous  croyez  etre  ce  seul  heureux  dans  le  grand  norobre 
qui  perira  ?  vous  qui  avez  moins  sujet  de  le  croirc  que  tout  autre  ;  vous  sur  qui  seui 
la  sentence  de  mort  devroit  tomber.    Grand  Dieu  !  qui  Ton  connoit  peu  dans  le  monde 

les  terreurs  de  votre  loi,'&.c. After  this  awakening'  and  alarming;  exhortation,  the 

orator  comes  with  propriety  to  this  practical  improvement :  •  Mais  que  conclure  des 
ces  grands  verites?  qu'il  faut  desesperer  deson  salut  ?  a  Dieu  ne  plaise ;  il  n'y  a  que 
l'impie,  qui,  pour  se  calmer  sur  ses  desordres,  tache  ici  de  conclure  en  secret  que  toua 
les  hommes  periront  comme  lui ;  ce  ne  doit  pas  etre  la  les  fruits  de  ce  discours.  Mais 
de  vous  detronaper  de  cette  erreur  si  universelle,  qu'on  peut  faire  ce  que  tous  les  autres 
font ;  et  que  l'usuge  est  une  voie  sure  ;  mais  de  vous  convaincre  que  pour  se  sauver,  il 
faut  de  distinguer  des  autres  ;  etre  singnlier,  vivre  a  part  au  milieu  du  monde,  et  ne  pas 
resseinbler  a  la  foule.' 

Sermons  de  Massillon,  Vol.  IV 


lect.  xxix.]   ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  PULPIT.  325 

In  Dr.  Barrow,  one  admires  more  the  prodigious  fecundity  of  his 
invention,  and  the  uncommon  strength  and  force  of  his  conceptions, 
than  the  felicity  of  his  execution,  or  his  talent  in  composition.  We 
see  a  genius  far  surpassing  the  common,  peculiar  indeed  almost  to 
himself;  but  that  genius  often  shooting  wild,  and  unchas'ised  by 
any  discipline  or  study  of  eloquence. 

I  cannot  attempt  to  give  particular  characters  of  that  great  num- 
ber of  writers  of  sermons  which  this,  and  the  former  age,  have  pro- 
duced, among  whom  we  meet  with  a  variety  of  most  respectable 
names.  We  find  in  their  composition  much  that  deserves  praise;  a 
great  display  of  abilities  of  different  kinds,  much  good  sense  and 
piety,  strong  reasoning,  sound  divinity,  and  useful  instruction; 
though  in  general  the  degree  of  eloquence  bears  not,  perhaps,  equal 
proportion  to  the  goodness  of  the  matter.  Bishop  Atterbury  de- 
serves to  be  particularly  mentioned  as  a  model  of  correct  and  beau- 
tiful style,  besides  having  the  merit  of  a  warmer  and  more  eloquent 
strain  of  writing,  in  some  of  his  sermons,  than  is  commonly  met 
with.  Had  Bishop  Butler,  in  place  of  abstract  philosophical  essays, 
given  us  more  sermons  in  the  strain  of  those  two  excellent  ones, 
which  he  composed  upon  self  deceit,  and  upon  the  character  of  Ba- 
laam, we  should  then  have  pointed  him  out  as  distinguished  for  that 
species  of  characteristical  sermons  which  I  before  recommended. 

Though  the  writings  of  the  English  divines  are  very  proper  to 
be  read  by  such  as  are  designed  for  the  church,  I  must  caution  them 
against  making  too  much  use  of  them,  or  transcribing  large  pas- 
sages of  them  into  the  sermons  they  compose.  Such  as  once  indulge 
themselves  in  this  practice,  will  never  have  any  fund  of  their  own. 
Infinitely  better  it  is,  to  venture  into  the  pulpit  with  thoughts  and 
expressions  which  have  occurred  to  themselves,  though  of  inferior 
beauty,  than  to  disfigure  their  compositions  by  borrowed  and  ill- 
sorted  ornaments,  which,  to  a  judicious  eye,  will  be  always  in  ha- 
zard of  discovering  their  own  poverty.  When  a  preacher  sits  down 
to  write  on  any  subject,  never  let  him  begin  with  seeking  to  consult 
all  who  have  written  on  the  same  text  or  subject.  This,  if  he  con- 
sult many,  will  throw  perplexity  and  confusion  into  his  ideas;  and 
if  he  consults  only  one,  will  often  warp  him  insensibly  into  his 
method,  whether  it  be  right  or  not.  But  let  him  begin  with  pon- 
dering the  subject  in  his  own  thoughts;  let  him  endeavour  to  fetch 
materials  from  within;  to  collect  and  arrange  his  ideas;  and  form 
some  sort  of  a  plan  to  himself,  which  it  is  always  proper  to  put 
down  in  writing.  Then,  and  not  till  then,  he  may  inquire  how 
others  have  treated  the  same  subject.  By  this  means,  the  method 
and  the  leading  thoughts  in  the  sermon  are  likely  to  be  his  own. 
These  thoughts  he  n.ay  impiove,  by  comparing  them  with  tl  e  (rack 
of  sentiment  which  others  have  pursued;  some  of  their  sense  he 
may,  without  blame,  incorporate  into  his  composition;  retaining 
always  his  own  words  and  style.  This  is  fair  assistance :  all  be- 
yond is  plagiarism. 

On  the  whole,  never  let  the  capital  principle  with  which  we  se* 
3  A 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  XXIX 


out  at  first,  be  forgotten,  to  keep  close  in  view  the  great  end  for  which 
a  preacher  mounts  the  pulpit ;  even  to  infuse  good  dispositions  into 
his  hearers,  to  persuade  them  to  serve  God,  and  to  become  better 
men.  Let  this  always  dwell  on  his  mind  when  he  is  composing, 
and  it  will  diffuse  through  his  compositions  that  spirit  which  will 
render  them  at  once  esteemed  and  useful.  The  most  useful  preacher 
is  always  the  best,  and  will  not  fail  of  being  esteemed  so.  Embel- 
lish truth  only  with  a  view  to  gain  it  the  more  full  and  free  admis- 
sion into  your  hearers'  minds ;  and  your  ornaments  will,  in  that  case, 
be  simple,  masculine,  natural.  The  best  applause,  by  far,  which  a 
preacher  can  receive,  arises  from  the  serious  and  deep  impressions 
which  his  discourse  leaves  on  those  who  hear  it.  The  finest  enco- 
mium, perhaps,  ever  bestowed  on  a  preacher,  was  given  by  Louis 
XIV.  to  the  eloquent  Bishop  of  Clermont,  Father  Massillon,  whom 
I  before  mentioned  with  so  much  praise.  After  hearing  him  preach 
at  Versailles,  he  said  to  him,  '  Father,  I  have  heard  many  great  ora- 
tors hi  this  chapel ;  I  have  been  highly  pleased  with  them  :  but  for 
you,  whenever  I  hear  you,  I  go  away  displeased  with  myself ;  for  I 
see  more  of  my  own  character.' 


QUESTIONS. 


Before  treating  of  the  structure  and 
component  parts  of  a  regular  oration, 
on  what  did  our  author  propose  making 
some  observations  ?  Of  what  has  he  al- 
ready treated;  and  what  remains?  With 
what  shall  we  begin  ?  What  advantages 
has  the  pulpit  peculiar  to  itself?  But  to- 
gether with  these  advantages,  what 
peculiar  difficulties  attend  the  eloquence 
of  the  prlpit  ?  What  sort  of  composi- 
tion is  the  greatest  trial  of  skill  ?  What, 
also,  is  to  be  considered?  What  is  solely 
the  preacher's  business ;  and  what  is 
the  pleader's  ?  Whom  does  the  latter 
describe;  and  what  is  the  consequence? 
From  these  causes,  what  comes  to  pass? 
In  the  art  of  preaching,  we  are  still  far 
from  what  ;  and  what  tbllows?  Of  the 
object,  however,  what  is  observed  ?  On 
this  subject,  what  is  the  opinion  of  Dr. 
Campbell?  What  may,  perhaps,  occur 
to  some  ;  and  on  what  principle?  Un- 
der what  circumstances  would  this  ob- 
;ection  have  weight  ?  What  is  true  elo- 
quence ?  Of  this,  what  is  observed ;  and 
why  ?  What  is  an  essential  requisite, 
in  order  tc  preach  well  ?  Why  is  this 
necessary  ;  and  what  is  the  end  of  all 
preaching?  What,  therefore,  should 
every  sermon  be  ?  What  remark  fol- 
lows ;  and  on  what  is  all  persuasion 
founded?  How  is  this  illustrated?  At  the 
same  time,  Avhat  must  be  remembered? 
For  what,  purposes  does  he  not  ascend 
♦he  pulpit ;  and  for  what  purposes  does 


the  eloquence  of  the  pulpit  be  ?  What 
is  one  of  the  first  qualities  of  preaching; 
and  in  what  sense  ?  What  does  our  au- 
thor, therefore,  not.  scruple  to  assert? 
How  is  this  remark  illustrated  ?  If  this 
be  the  proper  idea  of  a  sermon,  what 
very  material  consequence  follows  ?  In 
a  preceding  lecture,  what  was  shown  ? 
If  this  holds  in  other  kinds  of  public 
speaking,  why  does  it  hold  in  the  high- 
est degree  in  preaching  ?  What  will 
this  always  give  to  his  exhortations ; 
and  of  this,  Avhat  is  observed  ?  What 
would  prove  the  most  effectual  guard 
against  those  errors  which  preachers 
are  apt  to  commit;  and  what  would  be 
its  influence  ?  What  is  one  of  the  great 
causes  why  so  few  arrive  at  very  high 
eminence  in  preaching  ?  What  are  the 
chief  characteristics  of  the  eloquence 
su;ted  to  the  pulpit;  and  why?  Why 
is  it  difficult  to  unite  these  two  charac- 
ters of  eloquence  ?  In  what  should  their 
union  be  studied  by  all  preachers,  as  of 
the  utmost  consequence?  What  do  gra- 
vity and  warmth,  united,  form  ;  and  by 
it,  what  is  meant?  Next  to  a  just  idea 
of  the  nature  and  object  of  pulpit  elo- 
quence, what  is  the  point  of  jrreatest 
importance  to  the  preacher  ?  On  this 
subject,  what  is  remarked  ?  In  general, 
the  subjects  should  be  of  what  kind? 
Hoav  is  this  illustrated?  As  usefulness 
and  true  eloquence  always  go  together, 
what  follows?  Till  what  time  are  the 


♦ie  ascend  it  ?  Of  what  kind.  then,  must '  rules  which  relate  to  the  different  parts 


r.ECT.  XXIX.] 


QUESTIONS. 


326  a 


of  a  discourse,  to  be  reserved ;  but 
what  will  now  be  given  ?  What  is  the 
Srst  rule  mentioned  ?  Of  unity,  what 
is  here  observed  ?  What  does  our  au- 
thor mean  by  unity  ?  How  is  this  illus- 
trated ?  On  what  is  this  rule  founded ; 
and  what  is  the  effect  of  dividing? 
What  does  this  unity  not  require  1  As 
it  is  not  to  be  understood  in  so  narrow  a 
sense,  what  does  it  admit  ?  Of  this  re- 
mark, what  illustration  is  given  ?  In 
the  second  place,  according  to  what 
are  sermons  always  the  more  striking, 
and  commonly  the  more  useful ;  and 
from  what  does  this  follow?  How  is 
this  illustrated  ?  By  whom  are  general 
eubjects  often  chosen ;  and  why  ?  Of 
these  subjects,  what  is  observed ;  and 
with  what  do  they  fa!l  in  ?  By  what 
course  is  attention  much  more  particu- 
larly commanded  ?  What  furnishes  a 
subject  not  deficient  in  unity  or  pre- 
cision ?  But  how  may  the  subject  be 
made  still  more  interesting  ?  What  re- 
mark follows?  In  the  third  place,  in- 
stead of  saying  all  that  can  be  said 
upon  a  subject,  what  course  should  be 
pursued?  Under  what  circumstances 
would  it  be  requisite  for  the  ministers 
of  the  Gospel  to  be  full  on  every  parti- 
cular ;  and  why  ?  What  remark  fol- 
lows ?  There  may  always  be  what  ? 
If  he  seeks  to  omit  nothing  which  his 
subject  suggests,  what  will  be  the  con- 
sequence ?  In  studying  a  sermon,  what 
should  the  preacher  do  ?  What  mode 
enervates  the  noblest  truths?  What 
may  be  a  consequence  of  observing 
this  rule  ?  Why  will  this  be  attended 
with  no  disadvantage  ?  What  is  by  far 
the  simplest  and  most  natural  method ; 
and  why  ?  On  the  contrary,  to  what  is 
that  tedious  circuit,  which  some  are 
ready  to  take  in  all  their  illustrations, 
frequently  owing? 

In  the  fourth  place,  above  all  things, 
what  must  be  studied  ?  Of  this,  what 
is  observed ;  and  why  ?  In  order  to 
preach  in  an  interesting  manner,  on 
what  will  much  depend;  and  for  what 
reason  ?  What  are  here  but  the  secon- 
dary instruments ;  and  in  wnat  does 
the  great  secret  lie?  For  this  end,  what 
must  he  avoid  ?  As  much  as  possible, 
in  what  strain  should  the  discourse  be 
carried  on  ?  What  will  be  of  much  ad- 
vantage ;  and  for  what  reason  ?  For 
this  purpose,  what  study  is  most  neces- 
sary ;  and  what  produces  a  wonderful 
effect  ?  When  are  the  audience  apt  to 
think  themselves  unconcerned  in  the 
descrintion  ?    What   gives    the    chief 


power  and  effect  to  a  preacher's  dis 
course ;  and  hence,  what  commands 
high  attention?  Why  should  no  fa- 
vourable opportunity  of  introducing 
these  be  omitted  ?  What,  perhaps,  are 
the  most  beautiful,  and  among  the  most 
useful,  sermons?  Of  this  topic  of  preach- 
ing, what  is  observed  ?  What  is  men- 
tioned as  an  example?  In  the  last  place, 
what  caution  is  added  ?  Of  these,  what 
is  remarked  ?  How  is  this  illustrated  ? 
Of  each  of  these  modes,  what  is  obser- 
ved ;  and  what  follows?  What,  alone, 
is  entitled  to  any  authority ;  and  of  it, 
what  is  observed  ?  If  a  preacher  forms 
himself  upon  this  standard,  what  will 
be  the  consequence  ?  How  is  this  re- 
mark illustrated?  With  respect  to  style, 
what  does  the  pulpit  require  ?  As  dis- 
courses spoken,  there  are  calculated  for 
the  instruction  of  all  sorts  of  hearers 
what  should  reign  in  them ;  and  what 
should  be  avoided  ?  Of  young  preach- 
ers, what  is  here  observed  ?  What  does 
the  pulpit  require,  and  with  what  is  this 
perfectly  consistent?  How  is  this  illus- 
trated ?  Why  is  a  lively  and  animated 
style,  extremely  suited  to  the  pulpit  ? 
Besides  employing  metaphors  and  com- 
parisons, what  may  he  do  ?  But  on  this 
subject,  what  only  is  it  necessary  to 
obseive  ?  What  is  a  great  ornament  to 
sermons,  and  how  may  it  be  employed? 
Of  direct  quotations,  and  of  allusions  to 
remarkable  passages,  what  is  observed  ? 
In  a  sermon,  what  should  not  a  ppear  , 
and  of  these,  what  is  observed  ?  Though 
a  strong  style  must  be  studied,  vet  of 
what  must  we  beware  ?  Of  epithets, 
what  is  remarked ;  and  how  is  this  il- 
lustrated ?  With  what  advice  does  our 
author  conclude  this  head  ?  What  ques 
tion  is  here  introduced ;  and  how  is  it 
answered  ?  To  what  must  the  choice  of 
either  of  these  methods  be  left  ?  Of  the 
expressions  which  come  warm  anc 
glowing  from  the  mind,  what  is  obser- 
ved? But,  then,  what  follows?  What 
method,  therefore,  is  proper,  and  at  the 
beginning  absolutely  necessary  ?  Wha 
is  our  author  inclined  still  further  to 
say ;  and  why  ?  What  only,  at  prest  nt, 
is  said  of  pronunciation  and  deliveiy ; 
and  what  remark  follows  ?  Of  the  com- 
mon people,  what  is  here  observed  ? 
How  might  those  materially  aid  therr  ' 
selves,  whose  memories  are  not  suffi- 
cient to  retain  a  whole  discourse  ?  Of 
French  and  English  writers  of  sermons, 
what  is  here  observed?  What  is  a 
French  sermon  ?  To  what  do  the  French 
preachers  address   themselves-  and  \f> 


326  ( 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  xkx 


what  the  English  ?  What  would  form 
l  he  model  of  a  perfect  sermon  ?  How 
would  a  French  sermon  sound  in  our 
ears  ?  What  censure  do  French  critics 
pass  on  English  preachers  ?  What  are 
the  defects  of  most  of  the  French  ser- 
mons ?  Admitting,  however,  all  these 
defects,  what  cannot  be  denied?  Among 
French  protestant  divines,  who  is  the 
most  distinguished ;  and  who  is  the 
most  celebrated  among  the  Roman 
Catholics?  Of  them  respectively,  what 
is  observed?  When  did  the  sermons 
of  English  divines  abound  with  scho- 
lastic theology;  and  of  what  Averethey 
full  ?  But  to  these,  what  were  subjoin- 
ed? Upon  the  restoration,  what  did 
preaching  become  ;  and  what  was  the 
effect  of  this  upon  the  established  cler- 
gy ?  Upon  this  model,  whose  sermons 
are  most  correct ;  and  what  is  said  of 
him  ?  Of  Tillotson's  manner,  what  is 
observed  ?  Hence,  what  is  he ;  but  why 
must  we  not  consider  him  in  the  light  of 
a  perfect  orator?  What,  however,  enti- 
tles him  to  be  held  as  eminent  a  preach- 
er as  England  has  produced  ?  In  Dr. 
Barrow,  what  do  we  admire ;  and  what 
do  we  see  ?  What  cannot  our  author 
attempt;  and  what  i?  observed  of  them  ? 
Why  does  Atterbury  deserve  to  be  par- 


ticularly mentioned  ?  What  is  said  ol 
Bishop  Butler,  and  what  are  his  best 
sermons?  Against  what  are  such  aa 
are  designed  for  the  church  here  cau- 
tioned ;  why ;  and  what  practice  were 
infinitely  better?  When  a  preacher 
sits  down  to  write  a  sermon,  what 
course  should  he  pursue ;  and  for  what 
reason  ?  On  the  whole,  what  should 
never  be  forgotten?  What  influence 
will  this  have  upon  his  mind ;  and 
what  remarks  follow  ?  What  is  the  best 
applause  that  a  preacher  can  receive ; 
and  what  instance  is  here  mentioned  ? 


ANALYSIS. 

1.  The  advantages  of  pulpit  eloquence. 

2.  The  difficulties  that  attend  it. 

3.  An  habitual  view  of  its  end  essential. 

4.  The  character  of  the  preacher. 

5.  Its  characteristics. 

Rules  for  composing  sermons. 

a.  Unity  should  be  attended  to. 

b.  The  subject  should  be  particular. 

c.  It  should  not  be  exhausted. 

d.  The  instructions  should  be  interest- 
ing-. 

e.  No  particular  model  should  be  fol- 
lowed. 

6.  Perspicuity  of  style  requisite. 

7.  Reading1  sermons  considered. 

8.  The  French  and  the  English  manner  of 
preaching. 

9.  Distinguished  preachers  jf  both  nations. 


LECTURE   XXX. 


CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF  A  SERMON 
BISHOP  ATTERBURY'S. 


OF 


The  last  lecture  was  employed  in  observations  on  the  peculiar 
and  distinguishing  characters  of  the  eloquence  proper  for  the  pulpit. 
But  as  rules  and  di.-ections,  when  delivered  in  the  abstract,  are  never 
so  useful  as  when  they  are  illustrated  by  particular  instances,  it  may, 
perhaps,  be  of  some  benefit  to  those  who  are  designed  for  the  church, 
that  I  should  analyze  an  English  sermon,  and  consider  the  matter  of 
it,  together  with  the  manner.  For  this  purpose,  I  have  chosen  Bishop 
Atterbury  as  my  example,  <mo  is  deservedly  accounted  one  of  our 
most  eloquent  writers  of  sermons,  and  whom  I  mentioned  as  such  in 
the  last  lecture.  At  the  same  time,  he  is  more  distinguished  for  ele- 
gance and  purity  of  expression,  than  for  profoundness  of  thought. 
His  style,  though  sometimes  careless,  is,  upon  the  whole,  neat  and 
chaste  ;  and  more  beautiful  than  that  of  most  writers  of  sermons.  In 
his  sentiments  he  is  not  only  rational,  but  pious  and  devotional,  which 
is  a  great  excellency.  The  sermon  which  I  have  singled  out,  is  that 
upon  praise  and  thanksgiving,  the  first  sermon  of  the  first  volume, 
which  is  reckoned  one  of  his  best.  In  examining  it,  it  is  neccssarv 
that  I  should  use  full  liberty,  and  together  with  the  beauties,  point  oui 
any  defects  that  occur  to  me,  in  the  matter  as  well  as  in  the  style. 


leot.  xxx.]  SERMON  OF  BISHOP  ATTERBURY'S.         327 

Fsalm  i.  14.     Offer  unto  God  Thanksgiving. 

'  Among  the  many  excellencies  of  this  pious  collection  of  hymns, 
for  which  so  particular  a  value  hath  been  set  upon  it  by  the  church 
of  God  in  all  ages,  this  is  not  the  least,  that  the  true  price  of  duties 
is  there  justly  stated ;  men  are  called  off  from  resting  in  the  outward 
showof  religion,  in  ceremonies  and  ritual  observances;  and  taught 
rather  to  practise  (that  which  was  shadowed  out  by  these  rights, 
and  to  which  they  are  designed  to  lead)  sound  inward  piety  and 
virtue. 

'The  several  composers  of  these  hymns  were  prophets;  persons, 
whose  business  it  was  not  only  to  foretel  events,  for  the  benefit  of 
the  church  in  succeeding  times,  but  to  correct  and  reform  also  what 
was  amiss  among  that  race  of  men  with  whom  they  lived  arid  con- 
versed; to  preserve  a  foolish  people  from  idolatry  and  false  wor- 
ship ;  to  rescue  the  law  from  corrupt  glosses,  and  superstitious  abus- 
es; and  to  put  men  in  mind  of  (what  they  are  so  willing  to  forget) 
that  eternal  and  invariable  rule,  which  was  before  these  positive  du- 
ties, would  continue  after  them,  and  was  to  be  observed,  even  then, 
in  preference  to  them. 

'  The  discharge,  I  say,  of  this  part  of  the  prophetic  office,  taking 
up  so  much  room  in  the  book  of  Psalms ;  this  hath  been  one  rea- 
son, among  many  others,  why  they  have  always  been  so  higlily  es- 
teemed; because  we  are  from  hence  furnished  with  a  proper  reply 
to  an  argument  commonly  made  use  of  by  unbelievers,  who  look 
upon  all  revealed  religions  as  pious  frauds  and  impostures,  on  account 
of  the  prejudices  they  have  entertained  in  relation  to  that  of  the 
Jeivs ;  the  whole  of  which  they  first  suppose  to  lie  in  external  per- 
formances, and  then  easily  persuade  themselves,  that  God  could 
never  be  the  author  of  such  a  mere  piece  of  pageantry  and  empty 
formality,  nor  delight  in  a  worship  which  consisted  purely  in  a 
number  of  odd,  unaccountable  ceremonies.  Which  objection  ot 
theirs  we  should  not  be  able  thoroughly  to  answer,  unless  we  could 
prove,  (chiefly  out  of  the  Psalms,  and  other  parts  of  the  prophetic 
writings,)  that  the  Jewish  religion  was  somewhat  more  than  bare 
outside  and  show;  and  that  inward  purity,  and  the  devotion  of  the 
heart,  was  a  duty  then  as  well  as  now.' 

This  appears  to  me  an  excellent  introduction.     The  thought  on 
which  it  rests  is  solid  and  judicious;  that  in  the  book  of  Psalms, 
the  attention  of  men  is  called  to  the  moral  and  spiritual  part  of  reli 
gion;  and  the  Jewish  dispensation  thereby  vindicated  from  the  sus 
picion  of  requiring  nothing  more  from  its  votaries  than  lhe  observ 
ance  of  the  external  rights  and  ceremonies  of  the  law.     Such  views 
of  religion  are  proper  to  be  often  displayed;  and  deserve  to  be  insist- 
ed on,  by  all  who  wish  to  render  preaching  conducive  to  the  great 
purpose  of  promoting  righteousness  and  virtue.     The  style,  as  far  as 
we  have  gone,  is  not  only  free  from  faults,  but  elegant  and  happy. 
It  is  a  great  beauty  in  an  introduction,  when  it  can  be  made  to 
turn  on  some  thought,  fully  brought  out  and  illustrated;  especially 


328  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF  A    [lect.  xxi 

if  thai  thought  has  a  close  connexion  with  the  following  discourse, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  does  not  anticipate  any  thing  that  is  after- 
wards to  be  introduced  in  a  more  proper  place.  This  introduction 
of  Atterbury's  has  all  these  advantages.  The  encomium  which  he 
makes  on  the  strain  of  David's  Psalms,  is  not  such  as  might  as  well 
have  been  prefixed  to  any  other  discourse,  the  text  of  which  was 
taken  from  any  of  the  Psalms.  Had  this  been  the  case,  the  intro- 
duction would  have  lost  much  of  its  beauty.  We  shall  see  from  what 
follows,  how  naturally  the  introductory  thought  connects  with  his 
text,  and  how  happily  it  ushers  it  in. 

'One  great  instance  of  this  proof,  we  have  in  the  words  now  be- 
fore us;  which  are  taken  from  a  Psalm  of  Asaph,  written  on  pur- 
pose to  set  out  the  weakness  and  worthlessness  of  external  perform- 
ances, when  compared  with  more  substantial  and  vital  duties.  To 
enforce  which  doctrine,God  himself  is  brought  in  as  delivering  it. 
Hear,  0  my  people,  and  I  will  speak ;  0  Israel,  and  I  will  testi- 
fy against  thee:  I  am  God,  exien  thy  God.  The  preface  is  very 
solemn,  and  therefore  what  it  ushers  in,  we  maybe  sure  is  of  no 
common  importance;  I  loill  not  reprove  thee  for  thy  sacrifices  or 
thy  burnt  offerings  to  have  been  continually  before  me.  That  is, 
I  will  not  so  reprove  thee  for  any  failures  in  thy  sacrifices  and  burnt- 
offerings,  as  if  these  were  the  only,  or  the  chief  things  I  required  of 
thee.  /  will  take  no  bullock  out  of  thy  house,  nor  he-goat  out  of 
thy  folds:  I  prescribed  not  sacrifices  to  thee  for  my  own  sake,  be- 
cause I  needed  them ;  for  every  beast  of  the  forest  is  mine,  and  the 
cattle  on  a  thousand  hills.  Mine  they  are,  and  were,  before  I 
commanded  thee  to  offer  them  to  me;  so  that,  as  it  follows,  If  1 
were  hungry,  yet  would  I  not  tell  thee ;  for  the  world  is  mine,  and 
the  fulness  thereof.  But  can  ye  be  so  gross  and  senseless  as  to  think 
me  liable  to  hunger  and  thirst?  as  to  imagine  that  wants  of  that  kind 
can  touch  me?  Will  I  eat  the  flesh  of  bulls,  or  drink  the  blood  of 
goats?  Thus  doth  he  expostulate  severely  with  them,  after  the 
most  graceful  manner  of  the  eastern  poetry.  The  issue  of  which 
is  a  plain  and  full  resolution  of  the  case,  in  those  few  words  of  the 
text:  Offer  unto  God  thanksgiving.  Would  you  do  your  homage 
the  most  agreeable  way?  would  you  render  the  most  acceptable  of 
services?   Offer  unto  God  thayiksgiving.' 

It  is  often  a  difficult  matter  to  illustrate  gracefully  the  text  of  a 
sermon  from  the  context,  and  to  point  out  the  connexion  between 
them.  This  is  a  part  of  the  discourse  which  is  apt  to  become  dry  and 
tedious,  especially  when  pursued  into  a  minute  commentary. 
And,  therefore,  except  as  far  as  such  illustration  from  the  con- 
text is  necessary  for  explaining  the  meaning,  or  in  cases  where  it 
serves  to  give  dignity  and  force  to  the  text,  I  would  advise  it  to 
be  always  treated  with  brevity.  Sometimes  it  may  even  be  whol- 
ly omitted,  and  the  text  assumed  merely  as  an  independent  propo- 
sition, if  the  connexion  with  the  context  be  obscure,  and  would 
require  a  laborious  explanation.  In  the  present  case,  the  illus- 
tration from  the  context  is  singularly  happy.  The  passage  ot 
the  Psalm  on  which  it  is  founded  is  noble  and  spirited,  and  con- 


lect.  xxx.]  SERMON  OF  BISHOP  ATTERBUR Y'S.  329 

nected  in  such  a  manner  with  the  text,  as  to  introduce  it  with  a  very 
striking  emphasis.  On  the  language  I  have  little  to  observe,  ex- 
cept that  the  phrase,  one  great  instance  of  this  proof ,  is  a  clumsy 
expression.  It  was  sufficient  to  have  said,  one  great  proof,  or  one 
great  instance  of  this.  In  the  same  sentence,  when  he  speaks  ol 
setting  out  the  weakness  and  worthlessness  of  external  perform- 
ances, we  may  observe,  that  the  word  worthlessness,  as  it  is  now. 
commonly  used,  signifies  more  than  the  deficiency  of  worth,  which  is 
all  that  the  author  means.  It  generally  imports,  a  considerable  de 
greeof  badness  or  blame.  It  would  be  more  proper,  therefore,  to  say, 
the  imperfection,  or  the  insignificancy ,  of  external  performances. 

'The  use  I  intend  to  make  of  these  words,  is,  from  hence  to  raise 
some  thoughts  about  that  very  excellent  and  important  duty  of  praise, 
and  thanksgiving,  a  subject  not  unfit  to  be  discoursed  of  at  this  time: 
whether  we  consider,  either  the  more  than  ordinary  coldness  that 
appears  of  late  in  men's  tempers  towards  the  practice  of  this  (or  any 
other)  part  of  a  warm  and  affecting  devotion;  the  great  occasion  of 
setting  aside  this  particular  day  in  the  calendar,  some  years  ago;  or 
the  new  instances  of  mercy  and  goodness  which  God  hath  lately 
been  pleased  to  bestow  upon  us;  answering  at  last  the  many  prayers 
and  fastings  by  which  we  have  besought  him  so  long  for  the  esta- 
blishment of  their  majesties'  throne,  and  for  the  success  of  their 
arms ;  and  giving  us  in  his  good  time,  an  opportunity  of  appearing 
before  him  in  the  more  delightful  part  of  our  duty,  with  the  voice 
of  joy  and  praise,  ivith  a  multitude  that  keep  holydays.' 

In  this  paragraph  there  is  nothing  remarkable;  no  particular 
beauty  or  neatness  of  expression;  and  the  sentence  which  it  forms 
is  long  and  tiresome — to  raise  some  thoughts  about  the  very  ex- 
cellent, &c.  is  rather  loose  and  awkward ;  better,  to  recommend  that 
very  excellent,  &c.  and  when  he  mentions  setting  aside  a  particular 
day  in  the  calendar,  one  would  imagine,  that  setting  apart  would 
have  been  more  proper,  as  to  set  aside,  seems  rather  to  suggest  a  dif 
fercnt  idea. 

1  Offer  unto  God  thanksgiving.  Which  that  we  may  do,  let  us 
inquire  first,  how  we  are  to  understand  this  command  of  offering 
praise  and  thanksgiving  unto  God;  and  then,  how  reasonable  it  is 
that  we  should  comply  with  it.' 

This  is  the  general  division  of  the  discourse.  An  excellent  one 
it  is,  and  corresponds  to  many  subjects  of  this  kind,  where  particu- 
lar duties  are  to  be  treated  of;  first  to  explain,  and  then  to  recom- 
mend or  enforce  them.  A  division  should  always  be  simple  and 
natural;  and  much  depends  on  the  proper  view  which  it  gives  ol 
tho  subject. 

'  Our  inquiry  into  what  is  meant  here,  will  be  very  short,  for  who 
is  there,  that  understands  any  thing  of  religion,  but  knows,  that  the 
offering  praise  and  thanks  to  God,  implies,  our  having  a  lively  and 
devout  sense  of  his  excellencies,  and  of  his  benefits;  our  recollect- 
ing them  with  humility  and  thankfulness  of  heart;  and  our  ex 
pressing  these  inward  affections  by  suitable  outward  signs,  by  re 

42 


330  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF  A  [lect.  xxx 

verent  and  lowly  postures  of  body,  by  songs,and  hymns,  and  spiritu- 
al ejaculations;  either  publicly  or  privately;  either  in  the  customa- 
ry and  daily  service  of  the  church,  or  in  its  more  solemn  assemblies, 
convened  upon  extraordinary  occasions?  This  is  the  account  which 
every  christian  easily  gives  himself  of  it;  and  which,  therefore,  it 
would  be  needless  to  enlarge  upon.  I  shall  only  take  notice  upon 
this  head,  that  praise  and  thanksgiving  do,  in  strictness  of  speech, 
signify  things  somewhat  different.  Our  praise  properly  terminates 
in  God,  on  account  of  his  natural  excellencies  and  perfections;  and 
is  that  act  of  devotion,  by  which  we  confess  and  admire  his  several 
attributes:  but  thanksgiving  is  a  narrower  duty,  and  imports  only 
a  grateful  sense  and  acknowledgment  of  past  mercies.  We  praise 
God  for  all  his  glorious  acts  of  every  kind,  that  regard  either  us  or 
other  men,  for  his  very  vengeance,  and  those  judgments  which  he 
sometimes  sends  abroad  in  the  earth;  but  we  thank  him,  properly 
speaking,  for  the  instances  of  his  goodness  alone ;  and  for  such  only 
of  these,  as  we  ourselves  are  some  way  concerned  in.  This,  I  say,, 
is  what  the  two  words  strictly  imply:  but  since  the  language  of 
Scripture  is  generally  less  exact,  and  useth  either  of  them  often  to 
express  the  other  by,  I  shall  not  think  myself  obliged,  in  what  fol- 
lows, thus  nicely  always  to  distinguish  them.* 

There  was  room  for  insisting  more  fully  on  the  nature  of  the  duty, 
than  the  author  has  done  under  this  head ;  in  particular,  this  was  the 
place  for  correcting  the  mistake,  to  which  men  are  always  prone,  of 
making  thanksgiving  to  consist  merely  in  outward  expressions;  and 
for  showing  them,  that  the  essence  of  the  duty  lies  in  the  inward 
feelings  of  the  heart.  In  general,  it  is  of  much  use  to  give  full  and 
distinct  explications  of  religious  duties.  But  as  our  author  intended 
only  one  discourse  on  the  subject,  he  could  not  enlarge  with  equal 
fulness  on  every  part  of  it;  and  he  has  chosen  to  dwell  on  that  part, 
on  which,  indeed,  it  is  most  necessary  to  enlarge,  the  motives  en- 
forcing the  duty.  For  as  it  is  an  easier  matter  to  know,  than  to 
practise  duty,  the  persuasive  part  of  the  discourse  is  that  to  which 
the  speaker  should  always  bend  his  chief  strength.  The  account 
given  in  this  head,  of  the  nature  of  praise  and  thanksgiving,  though 
short,  is  yet  comprehensive  and  distinct,  and  the  language  is  smooth 
and  elegant. 

'Now, the  great  reasonableness  of  this  duty  of  praise  or  thanks- 
giving, and  our  several  obligations  to  it,  will  appear,  if  we  either 
consider  it  absolutely  in  itself,  as  the  debt  of  our  natures;  or  com- 
pare it  with  other  duties,  and  show  the  rank  it  bears  among  them  -7 
or  set  out,  in  the  last  place,  some  of  its  peculiar  properties  and  ad- 
vanUtges,  with  regard  to  the  devout  performer  of  it.' 

The  author  here  en  ers  upon  the  main  part  of  his  subject,  the  rea- 
sonableness of  the  duty,  and  mentions  three  arguments  for  proving 
it.  These  are  well  stated,  and  are  in  themselves  proper  and  weighty 
considerations.  How  far  he  has  handled  each  of  them  to  advantage, 
will  appear  as  we  proceed.  I  cannot,  however,  but  think  that  he 
has  omitted  one  very  material  part  of  the  argument,  which  was,  to 
have  shown  the  obligations  we  are  under  to  this  duty,  from  the  van 


t.ect.xxx.]  SERMON  OF  BISHOP  ATTERBURY'S.  331 

ous  subjects  of  thanksgiving  afforded  us  by  the  divine  goodness. 
This  would  have  led  him  to  review  the  chief  benefits  of  creation, 
providence  and  redemption;  and  certainly,  they  are  these  which 
lay  the  foundation  of  the  whole  argument  .or  thanksgiving.  The 
heart  must  first  be  affected  with  a  suitable  sense  of  the  divine  bene- 
fits, before  one  can  be  excited  to  praise  God.  If  you  would  persuade 
me  to  be  thankful  to  a  benefactor,  you  must  not  employ  such  consi- 
derations merely  as  those  upon  which  the  author  here  rests,  taken 
from  gratitude's  being  the  law  of  my  nature,  or  bearing  a  high  rank 
among  moral  duties,  or  being  attended  with  peculiar  advantages. 
These  are  considerations  but  of  a  secondary  nature.  You  must  be- 
gin with  setting  before  me  all  that  my  friend  has  done  for  me,  if  you 
mean  to  touch  my  heart,  and  to  call  forth  the  emotions  of  gratitude. 
The  case  is  perfectly  similar,  when  we  are  exhorted  to  give  thanks 
to  God;  and,  therefore,  in  giving  a  full  view  of  the  subject,  the 
blessings  conferred  on  us  by  divine  goodness  should  have  been  taken 
into  the  argument. 

It  may  be  said,  however,  in  apology  for  our  author,  that  this  would 
have  led  him  into  too  wide  a  field  for  one  discourse,  and  into  a  field 
also,  which  is  difficult,  because  so  beaten:  the  enumeration  of  the 
divine  benefits.  He  therefore  seems  to  take  it  for  granted,  that  we 
have,  upon  our  minds  a  just  sense  of  these  benefits.  He  assumes 
hem  as  known  and  acknowledged  ;  and  setting  aside  what  may  be 
called  the  pathetic  part  of  the  subject,  or  what  was  calculated  to 
warm  the  heart,  he  goes  on  to  the  reasoning  part.  In  this  manage- 
ment, I  cannot  .'^together  blame  him.  I  do  not  by  any  means  say 
that  it  is  necessary  in  every  discourse  to  take  in  all  that  belongs  to 
the  doctrine  of  which  we  treat.  Many  a  discourse  is  spoiled,  by 
attempting  to  render  it  too  copious  and  comprehensive.  The  preach- 
er may,  without  reprehension,  take  up  any  part  of  a  great  subject, 
to  which  his  geniu?  at  the  time  leads  him,  and  make  that  his  theme  : 
but  when  he  omits  any  thing  which  may  he  thought  essential,  he 
ought  to  give  notice,  that  this  is  a  part  which  for  the  time,  he  lays 
aside.  Something  of  this  sort  would  perhaps  have  been  proper  here. 
Our  author  might  have  begun,  by  saying,  that  the  reasonableness  of 
this  duty  must  appear  to  every  thinking  being,  who  reflects  upon 
the  infinite  obligations  which  are  laid  upon  us,  by  creating,  preserv- 
ing, and  redeeming  love ;  and, after  taking  notice  that  the  field  which 
these  open,  was  too  wide  for  him  to  enter  upon  at  that  time,  have 
proceeded  to  his  other  heads.  Let  us  now  consider  these  separately. 

'The  duty  of  praise  and  thanksgiving,  considered  absolutely,  in 
tself,  is,  I  say,  the  debt  and  law  of  our  nature.  We  had  such  facul- 
ties bestowed  on  us  by  our  Creator,  as  made  us  capable  of  satisfying 
this  debt,  and  obeying  this  law;  and  they  never,  therefore,  work 
more  naturally  and' freely,  than  when  they  are  thus  employed. 

<  'Tis  one  of  the  earliest  instructions  given  us  by  philosophy,  and 
which  has  ever  since  been  approved  and  inculcated  by  the  wisest 
men  of  all  ages,  that  the  original  design  of  making  man  was,  that  he 
might  praise  and  honour  him  who  made  him.      When  God  had 


332  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF  A   [lect.xxx 

finished  this  goodly  frame  of  things  we  call  the  world,  and  put  toge- 
ther the  several  parts  of  it,  according  to  his  infinite  wisdom,  in  exact 
number,  weight,  and  measure;  there  was  still  wanting  a  creature, 
in  these  lower  regions,  :hat  could  apprehend  the  beauty,  order,  and 
exquisite  contrivance  of  it;  that,  from  contemplating  the  gift,  might 
be  able  to  raise  itself  to  the  great  Giver,  and  do  honour  to  all  his  attri 
butes.  Every  thing,  indeed,  that  God  made,  did,  in  some  sense,  glo- 
rify its  Author,  inasmuch  as  it  carried  upon  it  the  plain  mark  and 
impress  of  the  Deity,  and  was  an  effect  worthy  of  that  first  cause  from 
whence  it  flowed ;  and  thus  might  the  he.avem  be  said,  at  the  first 
moment  in  which  they  stood  forth,  to  declare  his  glory,  and  the  fir- 
mament to  shoiv  his  handy  work:  But  this  was  an  imperfect  and  de- 
fective glory;  the  sign  was  of  no  signification  here  below,  whilst  there 
was  no  one  here  as  yet  to  take  notice  of  it.  Man,  therefore,  was  formed 
to  supply  this  want,  endowed  with  powers  fit  to  find  out,  and  to  ac- 
knowledge these  unlimited  perfections;  and  then  put  into  this  temple 
ofGod,  this  lower  world,  as  the  priest  of nature,  to  offer  up  the  incense 
of  thanks  and  praise  for  the  mute  and  insensible  part  of  the  creation. 

'This,  I  say,  hath  been  the  opinion  all  along  of*  the  most  thought- 
ful men  down  from  the  most  ancient  times:  and  though  it  be  not 
demonstrative,  yet  it  is  what  we  cannot  but  judge  highly  reason- 
able, if  we  do  but  allow  that  man  was  made  for  some  end  or  other; 
and  that  he  is  capable  of  perceiving  that  end.  For  then,  let  us 
search  and  inquire  never  so  much,  we  find  no  other  account  of  him 
that  we  can  rest  upon  so  well.  If  we  say,  that  he  was  made  purely 
for  the  good  pleasure  of  God ;  this  is,  in  effect,  to  say,  that  he  was 
made  for  no  determinate  end;  or  for  none,  at  least,  that  we  can  dis- 
cern. If  we  say,  that  he  was  designed  as  an  instance  of  the  wis- 
dom, and  power,  and  goodness  of  God ;  this,  indeed,  may  be  the 
reason  of  his  being  in  general;  for  'tis  the  common  reason  of  the 
being  of  every  thing  besides.  But  it  gives  no  account  why  he  wat 
made  such  a  thing  as  he  is;  a  reflecting,  thoughtful,  inquisitive  be- 
ing. The  particular  reason  of  this,  seems  most  aptly  to  be  drawn 
from  the  praise  and  honour  that  was  (not  only  to  redound  to  God 
from  him,  but)  to  be  given  to  God  by  him.' 

The  thought  which  runs  through  all  this  passage,  of  man's  being 
the  priest  of  nature,  and  of  his  existence  being  calculated  chiefly 
for  that  end,  that  he  might  offer  up  the  praises  of  the  mute  part  of 
the  creation,  is  an  ingenious  thought,  and  well  illustrated.  It  was  a  fa- 
vourite idea  among  some  of  the  ancient  philosophers;  and  it  is  not 
i  the  worse  on  that  account,  as  it  thereby  appears  to  have  been  a  natu- 
ral sentiment  of  the  human  mind.  In  composing  a  sermon,  how- 
ever, it  might  have  been  better  to  have  introduced  it  as  a  son  of 
collateral  argument,  or  an  incidental  illustration,  than  to  have  dis- 
played it  with  so  much  pomp,  and  to  have  placed  it  in  the  front  of 
the  arguments  for  this  duty.  It  does  not  seem  to  me,  when  placed, 
in  this  station,  to  bear  all  the  stress  which  the  author  lays  upon  it. 
When  the  divine  goodness  brought  man  into  existence,  we  cannot 
veil  conceive  that  its  chief  purpose  was,  to  form  a  being  who  might 


lect.  xxx.J   SERMON  OF  BISHOP  ATTERBURY'S.       333 

sing  praises  to  his  Maker.  Prompted  by  infinite  benevolence,  the 
Supreme  Creator  formed  the  human  race,  that  they  might  rise  to 
happiness,  and  to  the  enjoyment  of  himself,  through  a  course  of 
virtue,  or  proper  action.  The  sentiment  on  which  our  author 
dwells,  however  beautiful,  appears  too  loose  and  rhetorical  to  be  a 
principal  head  of  discourse. 

i  This  duty,  therefore,  is  the  debt  and  law  of  our  nature.  And  it 
will  more  distinctly  appear  to  be  such,  if  we  consider  the  two  ruling 
faculties  of  our  mind,  the  understanding  and  the  will}apart,  in  both 
which  it  is  deeply  founded  :  in  the  understanding,  as  in  the  principle 
of  reason,  which  owns  and  acknowledges  it;  in  the  will,  as  in  the 
fountain  of  gratitude  and  return,  which  prompts,  and  even  constrains 
us  to  pay  it. 

'Reason  was  given  us  as  a  rule  and  measure,  by  the  help  of  which 
we  were  to  proportion  our  esteem  of  every  thing,  according  to  the 
degrees  of  perfection  and  goodness  which  we  found  therein.  It  can- 
not therefore,  if  it  doth  its  office  at  all,  but  apprehend  God  as  the 
best  and  most  perfect  being;  it  must  needs  see,  and  own,  and  ad- 
mire his  infinite  perfections.  And  this  is  what  is  strictly  meant  by 
praise;  which,  therefore,  is  expressed  in  Scripture,  by  confessing  to 
God,  and  acknowledging  him  ;  by  ascribing  to  him  what  is  his  due; 
and  as  far  as  this  sense  of  the  words  reaches,  'tis  impossible  to  think 
of  God  without  praising  him;  for  it  depends  not  on  the  understand- 
ing, how  it  shall  apprehend  things,  any  more  than  it  doth  on  the  eye, 
how  visible  objects  shall  appear  to  it. 

'The  duty  takes  the  further  and  surer  hold  of  us,  by  the  means 
of  the  will,  and  that  strong  bent  towards  gratitude,  which  the  Au- 
thor of  our  nature  hath  implanted  in  it.  There  is  not  a  more  ac- 
tive principle  than  this  in  the  mind  of  man ;  and  surely  that  which 
deserves  its  utmost  force,  and  should  set  all  its  springs  a-work,  is 
God ;  the  great  and  universal  Benefactor,  from  whom  alone  we  re- 
ceived whatever  we  either  have,  or  are,  and  to  whom  we  can  possibly 
repay  nothing  but  our  praises,  or  (to  speak  more  properly  on  this 
head,  and  according  to  the  strict  import  of  the  word)  our  thanks- 
giving. JVho  hath  first  given  to  God,  (saith  the  great  Apostle,  in 
his  usual  figure)  and  it  shall  be  recompensed  unto  him  again  ?  A  gift, 
it  seems,  always  requires  a  recompense:  nay,  but  oj 'him,  and through 
him,  and  to  him,are  all  things :  of  him,  as  the  Author ;  through  him, 
as  the  Preserver  and  Governor;  to  him,  as  the  end  and  perfection  of 
all  things;  to  whom,  therefore,  (as  it  follows,)  be  glory  for  ever, 
Amen  !' 

I  cannot  much  approve  of  the  light  in  which  our  author  places 
his  argument  in  these  paragraphs.  There  is  something  too  meta- 
physical and  refined,  in  his  deducing,  in  this  manner,  the  obligation 
to  thanksgiving,  from  the  two  faculties  of  the  mind,  understanding 
and  will.  Though  what  he  says  be  in  itself  just,  yet  the  argument 
is  not  sufficiently  plain  and  striking.  Arguments  in  sermons,  espe- 
cially on  subjects  that  so  naturally  and  easily  suggest  them,  should 
be  palpable  and  popular ;  should  not  be  brought  from  topics  that 
appear  far  sought,  but  should  directly  address  the  heart  and  feelings 


334  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF  A   ^£ct.xx^ 

The  preacher  ought  never  to  depart  too  far  from  the  common  ways 
of  thinking  and  expressing  himself.  I  am  inclined  to  think,  that 
this  whole  head  might  have  been  improved,  if  the  author  had  taken 
up  moie  obvious  ground;  had  stated  gratitude  as  one  of  the  most 
natural  principles  of  the  human  heart;  had  illustrated  this,  by  show- 
ing how  odious  the  opposite  disposition  is,  and  with  what  general 
consent  men,  in  all  ages,  have  agreed  in  hating  and  condemning  the 
ungrateful;  and  then  applying  these  reasonings  to  the  present  case, 
had  placed,  in  a  strong  view,  that  entire  corruption  of  moral  senti- 
ment which  it  discovers,  to  be  destitute  of  thankful  emotions  to- 
wards the  Supreme  Benefactor  of  mankind.  As  the  most  natural 
method  of  giving  vent  to  grateful  sentiments  is,  by  external  expres- 
sions of  thanksgiving,  he  might  then  have  answered  the  objection 
that  is  apt  to  occur,  of  the  expression  of  our  praise  being  insignifi- 
cant to  the  Almighty.  But,  by  seeking  to  be  too  refined  in  his  argu- 
ment, he  has  omitted  some  of  the  most  striking  and  obvious  consider- 
ations, and  which, properly  displayed,  would  have  afforded  as  great 
a  field  for  eloquence  as  the  topics  which  he  has  chosen.  He  goes 
on  : 

'  Gratitude  consists  in  an  equal  return  of  benefits,  if  we  are  able ; 
of  thanks,  if  we  are  not:  which  thanks,  therefore,  must  rise  always 
in  proportion  as  the  favours  received  are  great,  and  the  receiver  inca- 
pable of  making  any  other  sort  of  requital.  Now,  since  no  man  hath 
benefited  God  at  any  time,  and  yet  every  man,  in  each  moment  of 
his  life,  is  continually  benefited  by  him,  what  strong  obligations  must 
we  needs  be  under  to  thank  him?  'Tis  true,  our  thanks  are  really 
as  insignificant  to  him,  as  any  other  kind  of  return  would  be;  in 
themselves,  indeed,  they  are  worthless;  but  his  goodness  has  put 
a  value  upon  them:  he  hath  declared,  he  will  accept  them  in  lieu 
of  the  vast  debt  we  owe;  and  after  that,  which  is  fittest  for  us,  to 
dispute  how  they  came  to  be  taken  as  an  equivalent,  or  to  pay  them? 

'It  is,  therefore,  the  voice  of  nature  (as  far  as  gratitude  itself  is 
so)  that  the  good  things  we  receive  from  above,  should  be  sent  back 
again  thither  in  thanks  and  praises  ;  as  the  rivers  run  into  the  sea, 
to  the  place  (the  ocean  of  beneficence)  from  xuhence  the  rivers  come, 
thither  should  they  return  again.f 

In  these  paragraphs,  he  has,  indeed,  touched  some  of  the  consi- 
derations which  I  mentioned.  But  he  has  only  touched  them  ; 
whereas,  with  advantage,  they  might  have  formed  the  main  body  of 
his  argument. 

'  We  have  considered  the  duty  absolutely  ;  we  are  now  to  compare 
it  with  others,  and  to  see  what  rank  it  bears  among  them.  And 
here  we  shall  find,  that,  among  all  the  acts  of  religion  immediately 
addressed  to  God,  this  is  much  the  noblest  and  most  excellent ;  as  it 
must  needs  be,  if  what  hath  been  laid  down  be  allowed,  that  the  end 
of  man's  creation  was  to  praise  and  glorify  God  ;  for  that  cannot 
but  be  the  most  noble  and  excellent  act  of  any  being  which  best  an- 
swers the  end  and  design  of  it.  Other  parts  of  devotion,  sucl  aa 
confession  and  prayer,  seem  not  originally  to  have  been  designed  for 
man,  nor  man  for  them.     They  imply  guilt  and  want,  with  which 


lect.  xxx.]  SERMON  OF  BISHOP  ATTERBURY'S.  335 

the  state  of  innocence  was  not  acquainted.  Had  man  continued  ir 
that  estate,  his  worship  (like  the  devotions  of  angels)  had  been  paid 
to  Heaven  in  pure  acts  of  thanksgiving  ;  and  nothing  had  been  left 
for  him  to  do,  beyond  the  enjoying  the  good  things  of  life,  as  nature 
directed,  and  praising  the  God  of  nature  who  bestowed  them.  But 
being  fallen  from  innocence  and  abundance;  having  contracted  guilt 
and  forfeited  his  right  to  all  sorts  of  mercies  ;  prayer  and  confession 
became  necessary,  for  a  time,  to  retrieve  the  loss,  and  to  restore  him 
to  that  state  wherein  he  should  be  able  to  live  without  them.  These 
are  fitted,  therefore,  for  a  lower  dispensation;  before  which,  in  Pa- 
radise, there  was  nothing  but  praise,  and  after  which,  there  shall 
be  nothing  but  that  in  Heaven.  Our  perfect  state  did  at  first,  and 
will  at  last,  consist  in  the  performance  of  this  duty ;  and  herein, 
therefore,  lies  the  excellence  and  the  honour  of  our  nature. 

'  'Tis  the  same  way  of  reasoning,  by  which  the  Apostle  hath  given 
the  preference  to  charity,  beyond  faith,  and  hope,  and  every  spirit- 
ual gift.  Charity  never  faileth,  saith  he;  meaning,  that  it  is  not 
a  virtue  useful  only  in  this  life,  but  will  accompany  us  also  into  the 
next:  but  whether  there  be  prophecies,  they  shall  fail ;  lohether 
there  be  tongues,  they  shall  cease;  xohether  there  be  knowledge,  it 
shall  vanish  away.  These  are  gifts  of  a  temporary  advantage,  and 
shall  all  perish  in  the  using.  For  ive  know  in  part,  arid  ive  pro- 
phesy in  part :  our  present  state  is  imperfect,  and,  therefore,  what 
belongs  to  that,  and  only  that,  must  be  imperfect  too.  But  when 
that  -w  h  ich  is  perfect  is  come,  then  that  which  is  in  paH  shall  be  done 
away.  The  argument  of  St.  Paul,  we  see,  which  sets  charity  above 
the  rest  of  christian  graces,  will  give  praise  also  the  pre-eminence 
over  all  the  parts  of  the  christian  worship ;  and  we  may  conclude  our 
reasoning,  therefore, as  he  doth  his:  Jlnd  now  abideth.  confession, 
prayer,  and  praise,  these  three;  but  the  greatest  of  these  is  praise. 

The  author,  here,  enters  on  the  second  part  of  his  argument,  thr 
high  rank  which  thanksgiving  holds,  when  compared  with  othe* 
duties  of  religion.  This  he  handles  with  much  eloquence,  an^ 
beauty.  His  idea,  that  this  was  the  original  worship  of  man,  be- 
fore his  fall  rendered  other  duties  requisite,  and  shall  continue  tc 
be  his  worship  in  Heaven,  when  the  duties  which  are  occasioned  by 
a  consciousness  of  guilt  shall  have  no  place,  is  solid  and  just;  his 
illustration  of  it  is  very  happy;  and  the  style  extremely  flowing  and 
sweet.  Seldom  do  we  meet  with  any  piece  of  composition  in  ser 
mons.  that  has  more  merit  than  this  head. 

'It  is  so,  certainly,  on  other  accounts,  as  well  as  this;  particular 
ly,  as  it  is  the  most  disinterested  branch  of  our  religious  service; 
such  as  hath  the  most  of  God,  and  the  least  of  ourselves  in  it,  of  any 
we  pay ;  and  therefore  approaches  the  nearest  of  any  to  a  pure, 
and  free,  and  perfect  act  of  homage.  For  though  a  good  action 
does  not  grow  immediately  worthless  by  being  done  with  the 
prospect  of  advantage,  as  some  have  strangely  imagined  ;  yet  it 
will  be  allowod,  I  suppose,  that  its  being  done,  without  the  mix- 
ture of  that  e.id,  or  with  as  little  of  it  as  possible,  recommends 


S36  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF  A    [lect,  xxx. 

it  so  much  the  more,  and  raises  the  price  of  it.  Doth  Job  fear  God 
for  nought?  was  an  objection  of  Satan;  which  implied,  that  those 
duties  were  most  valuable,  where  our  own  interest  was  the  leas* 
aimed  at:  and  God  seems,  by  the  commission  he  then  gave  Satan, 
to  try  experiments  upon  Job,  thus  far  to  have  allowed  his  plea. 
Now  our  requests  for  future,  and  even  our  acknowledgements  of 
past  mercies,  centre  purely  in  ourselves;  our  own  interest  is  the  di 
rect  aim  cf  them.  But  praise  is  a  generous  and  unmercenary  prin- 
ciple, which  proposes  no  other  end  to  itself,  but  to  do,  as  is  fit  for  a 
creature  endowed  with  such  faculties  to  do,  towards  the  most  per- 
fect and  beneficent  of  beings;  and  to  pay  the  willing  tribute  of  ho- 
nour there,  where  the  voice  of  reason  directs  us  to  pay  it.  God  hath 
indeed  annexed  a  blessing  to  the  duty,  and  when  we  know  this,  we 
cannot  choose,  while  we  are  performing  the  duty,  but  have  some 
regard  to  the  blessing  which  belongs  to  it.  However,  that  is  not 
the  direct  aim  of  our  devotions,  nor  was  it  the  first  motive  that  stir- 
red us  up  to  them.  Had  it  been  so,  we  should  naturally  have  be- 
taken ourselves  to  prayer,  and  breathed  out  our  desires  in  that  form 
wherein  they  are  most  properly  conveyed. 

'In  short,  praise  is  our  most  excellent  work;  a  work  common  to 
the  church  triumphant  and  militant,  and  which  lifts  us  up  into  com- 
munion and  fellowship  with  angels.  The  matter  about  which  it  is 
conversant,  is  always  the  perfection  of  God's  nature  ;  and  the  act 
itself  is  the  perfection  of  ours.' 

Our  author's  second  illustration  is  taken  from  praise  being  the 
most  disinterested  act  of  homage.  This  he  explains  justly  and  ele- 
gantly; though,  perhaps,  the  consideration  is  rather  too  thin  and 
refined  for  enforcing  religious  duties:  as  creatures,  such  as  we,  in 
approaching  to  the  divine  presence,  can  never  be  supposed  to  lav- 
aside  all  consideration  of  our  own  wants  and  necessities ;  and  cer- 
tainly are  not  required  (as  the  author  admits)  to  divest  ourselves  of 
such  regards.  The  concluding  sentence  of  this  head  is  elegant,  and 
happily  expressed. 

'I  come  now,  in  the  last  place,  to  set  out  some  of  its  peculiar 
properties  and  advantages,  which  recommend  it  to  the  devout  per- 
former.    And, 

'  1.  It  is  the  most  pleasing  part  of  our  devotions :  it  proceeds  al- 
ways from  a  lively,  cheerful  temper  of  mind,  and  it  cherishes  and  im- 
proves what  it  proceeds  from.  For  it  is  good  to  sing  praises  unto 
our  God,  (says  one,  whose  experience,  in  this  case,  we  may  rely 
upon) /or  it  is  pleasant,  and  praise  is  comely.  Petition  and  confes- 
sion are  the  language  of  the  indigent  and  the  guilty,  the  breathings 
of  a  sad  and  contrite  spirit;  Is  any  afflicted  ?  let  him  pray  :  but  is 
any  merry?  let  him  sing  psahns.  The  most  usual  and  natural 
way  of  men's  expressing  the  mirth  of  their  hearts  is  in  a  song,  and 
songs  are  the  very  language  of  praise;  to  the  expressing  of  which 
they  are  in. a  peculiar  manner  appropriated,  and  are  scarce  of  any 
other  use  in  religion.  Indeed,  the  whole  composition  of  this  duty 
is  such,  as  throughout  speaks  ease  and  delight  to  the  mind.    It  pro- 


lect.xxx.]   SERMON  OF  BISHOP  ATTERBURY'S.         337 

ceeds  from  love  and  from  thankfulness ;  from  love,  the  fountain  of 
pleasure,  the  passion  which  gives  every  thing  we  do,  or  enjoy,  it? 
relish  and  agreeableness.  From  thankfulness,  which  involves  in 
it  the  memory  of  past  benefits,  the  actual  presence  of  them  to  the 
mind,  and  the  repeated  enjoyment  of  them.  And  as  is  its  principle, 
such  is  its  end  also:  for  it  procureth  quiet  and  ease  to  the  mind,  by 
doing  somewhat  towards  satisfying  that  debt  which  it  labours  under: 
by  delivering  it  to  those  thoughts  of  praise  and  gratitude,  those  ex* 
ultations  it  is  so  full  of;  and  which  should  grow  uneasy  and  trouble- 
some to  it  if  they  were  kept  in.  If  the  thankful  <  refrained,  it  would 
be  pain  and  grief  to  them:  but  then,  then  'is  their  soul  satisfied  as 
with  marrow  and  fatness,  when  their  mouth  praiseth  God  with  joy- 
ful lips.' » 

In  beginning  this  head  of  discourse,  the  expression  which  the  au- 
thor uses,  '  to  set  out  some  of  its  peculiar  properties  and  advantages,' 
would  now  be  reckoned  not  so  proper  an  expression,  as  '  to  point  out,' 
or  '  to  show.'  The  first  subdivision,  concerning  praise  being  the 
most  pleasant  part  of  devotion,  is  very  just  and  well  expressed,  as  far 
as  it  goes;  but  seems  to  me  rather  defective.  Much  more  might 
have  been  said,  upon  the  pleasure  that  accompanies  such  exalted  acts 
of  devotion.  It  was  a  cold  thought,  to  dwell  upon  its  disburdening 
the  mind  of  a  debt.  The  author  should  have  insisted  more  upon 
the  influence  of  praise  and  thanksgiving,  in  warming,  gladdening, 
soothing  the  mind;  lifting  it  above  the  world,  to  dwell  among  divine 
and  eternal  objects.  He  should  have  described  the  peace  and  joy 
which  then  expand  the  heart ;  the  relief  which  this  exercise  procures 
from  the  cares  and  agitations  of  life  ;  the  encouraging  views  of  Pro- 
vidence to  which  it  leads  our  attention  :  and  the  trust  which  it  pro- 
motes in  the  divine  mercy  for  the  future,  by  the  commemoration  of 
benefits  past.  In  short,  this  was  the  place  for  his  pouring  out  a 
greater  flow  of  devotional  sentiments  than  what  we  here  find. 

'2.  It  is  another  distinguishing  property  of  divine  pn  'se,that  it 
enlarge th  the  powers  and  capacities  of  our  souls,  turning  ti  em  from 
low  and  little  things,  upon  their  greatest  and  noblest  object,  the 
divine  nature,  and  employing  them  in  the  discovery  and  admiration 
of  those  several  perfections  that  adorn  it.  We  see  what  difference 
there  is  between  man  and  man,  such  as  there  is  hardly  greater  be- 
tween man  and  beast:  and  this  proceeds  chiefly  from  tbe  different 
sphere  of  thought  which  they  act  in,  and  the  different  objects  they 
converse  with.  The  mind  is  essentially  the  same  in  the  peasant  and 
the  prince  ;  the  force  of  it  naturally  equal,  in  the  untaught,  man,  and 
the  philosopher;  only  the  one  of  these  is  busied  in  mean  afliirs,  and 
within  narrower  bounds;  the  other  exercises  himself  in  things  of 
weight  and  moment ;  and  this  it  is,  that  puts  the  wide  distance  be- 
tween them.  Noble  objects  are  to  the  mind,  what  tbe  sunbeams 
are  to  a  bud  or  flower;  they  open  and  unfold,  as  it  were,  the  leaves 
of  it ;  put  it  upon  exerting  and  spreading  itself  every  way  ;  and  call 
forth  all  those  powei^  that  lie  hid  and  locked  up  in  it.  The  praise 
and  admiration  of  Gid,  therefore,  bring  this  advantage  along  witb 

43 


33S  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION  OF  A     [lect.  xxx. 

it,  that  it  sets  our  faculties  upon  their  full  stretch,  and  improves  them 
to  all  the  degrees  of  perfection  of  which  they  are  capable.' 

This  head  is  just,  well  expressed,  and  to  censure  it  might  appear 
hypercritical.  Some  of  the  expressions,  however,  one  would  think 
might  be  amended.  The  simile,  for  instance,  about  the  effects  of 
the  sunbeams  upon  the  bud  or  flower,  is  pretty,  but  not  correctly 
expressed.  '  They  open  and  unfold,  as  it  were,  the  leaves  of  it.'  If 
this  is  to  be  literally  applied  to  the  flower,  the  phrase,  '  as  it  were,' 
is  needless;  if  it  is  to  be  metaphorically  understood, (which  appears 
to  be  the  case,)  the  '  leaves  of  the  mind,'  is  harsh  language  ;  besides 
that, '  put  it  upon  exerting  itself,'  is  rather  a  lew  expression.  Nothing 
is  more  nice  than  to  manage  properly  such  similes  and  allusions,  so 
as  to  preserve  them  perfectly  correct,  and  at  the  same  time  to  render 
the  image  lively  :  it  might  perhaps  be  amended  in  some  such  way 
as  this :  '  As  the  sunbeams  open  the  bud,  and  unfold  the  leaves  of  a 
flower,  noble  objects  have  a  like  effect  upon  the  mind:  they  expand 
and  spread  it,  and  call  forth  those  powers  that  before  lay  hid  and 
locked  up  in  the  soul.' 

'  3.  It  farther  promotes  in  us  an  exquisite  sense  of  God's  honour, 
and  a  high  indignation  of  mind  at  everything  that  openly  profanes 
it.  For  what  we  value  and  delight  in,  we  cannot  with  patience  hear 
slighted  or  abused.  Our  own  praises,  which  we  are  constantly  put- 
ting up,  will  be  a  spur  to  us  towards  procuring  and  promoting  the 
divine  glory  in  every  other  instance  ;  and  will  make  us  set  our  faces 
against  all  open  and  avowed  impieties ;  which,  methinks,  should  be 
considered  a  little  by  such  as  would  be  thought  not  to  be  wanting  in 
this  duty,  and  yet  are  often  silent  under  the  foulest  dishonours  done 
to  religion,  and  its  great  Author :  for  tamely  to  hear  God's  name  and 
worship  vilified  by  others,  is  no  very  good  argument  that  we  have 
been  used  to  honour  and  reverence  him,  in  good  earnest,  ourselves.' 

The  thought  here  is  well  founded,  though  it  is  carelessly  and 
loosely  br  ughtout.  The  sentence, 'our  own  praises,  which  we  are 
constantly  putting  up,  will  be  a  spur  to  us  towards  procuring  and 
promoting  the  divine  glory  in  every  other  instance,'  is  both  negligent 
in  language,  and  ambiguous  in  meaning,  for  '  our  own  praises,'  pro- 
perly signifies  the  praises  of  ourselves.  Much  better  if  he  had  said, 
•  Those  devout  praises  which  we  constantly  offer  up  to  the  Almighty, 
will  naturally  prompt  us  to  promote  the  divine  glory  in  every  other 
instance.' 

'  4.  It  will,  beyond  all  this,  work  in  us  a  deep  humility  and  con- 
sciousness of  our  own  imperfections.  Upon  a  frequent  attention  to 
God  and  his  attributes,  we  shall  easily  discover  our  own  weakness 
and  emptiness ;  our  swelling  thoughts  of  ourselves  will  abate,  and 
we  shall  see  and  feel  that  we  are '  altogether  lighter  to  be  laid  in  the 
balance  than  vanity  ;'  and  this  is  a  lesson  which,  to  the  greatest  part 
of  mankind,  is,  I  think,  very  well  worth  learning.  We  are  naturally 
presumptuous  and  vain;  full  of  ourselves,  and  regardless  of  every 
thing  besides,  especially  when  some  little  outward  privileges  dis- 
tinguish us  from  the  rest  of  mankind  ;  then,  it  is  odds,  but  we  look 
into  ourselves  with  great  degrees  of  complacency,  '  and  are  wiser* 


lect.xxx.]    SERMON  OF  BISHOP  ATrERBURY'S.         339 

(and  better  every  way)  '  in  our  own  conceit,  than  seven  men  that  can 
render  a  reason.'  Now  nothing  will  contribute  so  much  to  the  cure 
of  this  vanity,  as  a  due  attention  to  God's  excellences  and  perfections. 
By  comparing  these  with  those  which  we  imagine  belong  to  us,  we 
shall  learn,  '  not  to  think  more  highly  of  ourselves,  than  we  oughi 
to  think  of  ourselves,'  but  'to  think  soberly;'  we  shall  find  more  satis- 
faction in  looking  upwards,  and  humbling  ourselves  before  our  com- 
mon Creator,  than  in  casting  our  eyes  downward  with  scorn  upon 
our  fellow-creatures,  and  setting  at  nought  any  part  of  the  work  ol 
his  hands.  The  vast  distance  we  are  at  from  real  and  infinite  worth, 
will  astonish  us  so  much,  that  we  shall -not  be  tempted  to  value  our- 
selves upon  these  lesser  degrees  of  pre-eminence,  which  custom  or 
opinion,  or  some  little  accidental  advantages,  have  given  us  over 
other  men.' 

Though  the  thought  here  also  be  just,  yet  a  like  deficiency  in  ele- 
gance and  beauty  appears.  The  phrase, '  it  is  odds  but  we  look  into 
ourselves,  with  great  degrees  of  complacency,'  is  much  too  low  and 
colloquial  for  a  sermon — he  might  have  said, '  we  are  likely,'  or  '  we 
are  prone,'  to  look  into  ourselves. — '  Comparing  these  with  those 
which  we  imagine  belong  to  us,'  is  also  very  careless  style. — '  By 
comparing  these  with  the  virtues  and  abilities  which  we  .ascribe  to 
ourselves,  we  shall  learn' — would  have  been  purer  and  more  correct 

'  5.  I  shall  mention  but  one  use  of  it  more,  and  it  is  this :  that  a 
conscientious  praise  of  God  will  keep  us  back  from  all  false  and  mean 
praise,  all  fulsome  and  servile  flatteries,  such  as  are  in  use  among 
men.  Praising,  as  it  is  commonly  managed,  is  nothing  else  but  a 
trial  of  skill  upon  a  man,  how  many  good  things  we  can  possibly  say 
of  him.  All  the  treasures  of  oratory  are  ransacked,  and  all  the  fine 
things  that  ever  were  said,  are  heaped  together  for  his  sake  ;  and  no 
matter  whether  it  belongs  to  him  or  not ;  so  there  be  but  enough 
on't;  which  is  one  deplorable  instance,  among  a  thousand,  of  the 
baseness  of  human  nature,  of  its  small  regard  to  truth  and  justice 
to  right  or  wrong,  to  what  is  or  is  not  to  be  praised.  But  he  who 
hath  a  deep  sense  of  the  excellences  of  God  upon  his  heart  will  make 
a  god  of  nothing  besides.  He  will  give  every  one  his  just  enco- 
mium, honour  where  honour  is  due,  and  as  much  as  is  due,  because 
it  is  his  duty  to  do  so ;  but  the  honour  of  God  will  suffer  him  to  go  no 
farther.  Which  rule,  if  it  had  been  observed,  a  neighbouring  prince 
(who  now,  God  be  thanked,  needs  flattery  a  great  deal  more  than 
ever  he  did,)  would  have  wanted  a  great  deal  of  that  incense  which 
hath  been  offered  up  to  him  by  his  adorers.' 

This  head  appears  scarcely  to  deserve  any  place  among  the  more 
important  topics  that  naturally  presented  themselves  on  this  subject: 
at  'east,  it  had  much  better  have  wanted  the  application  which  the 
author  makes  of  his  reasoning  to  the  flatterers  of  Louis  XIV. ;  and 
the  thanks  which  he  offers  to  God,  for  the  affairs  of  that  princetbe- 
ing  in  so  low  a  state,  that  he  now  needed  flattery  more  than  ever. 
This  political  satire  io  altogether  out  of  place,  and  unworthy  of  the 
subject. 

One  would  be  inclined  to  think,    '-•on  reviewing  our  author's  ar 
3C 


340  CRITICAL  EXAMINATION,  &c.     [lect.  xn 

guments,  that  he  has  overlooked  some  topics,  respecting  the  happy 
consequences  of  this  duty,  of  fully  as  much  importance  as  any 
that  he  has  inserted.  Particularly,  he  ought  not  to  have  omitted  the 
happy  tendency  of  praise  and  thanksgiving,  to  strengthen  good  dis- 
positions in  the  heart ;  to  promote  love  to  God,  and  imitation  of  those 
perfections  which  we  adore;  and  to  infuse  a  spirit  of  ardour  and  zeal 
into  the  whole  of  religion,  as  the  service  of  our  Benefactor.  These 
are  consequences  which  naturally  follow  from  the  proper  perform- 
ance of  this  duty  and  which  ought  not  to  have  been  omitted; 
as  no  opportunity  should  be  lost  of  showing  the  good  effect  of  de- 
votion on  practical  religion  and  moral  virtue,  and  pointing  out  the 
necessary  connexion  of  the  one  with  the  other.  For  certain- 
ly the  great  end  of  preaching  is,  to  make  men  better  in  all  the  re- 
lations of  life,  and  to  promote  that  complete  reformation  of  heart 
and  conduct  in  which  true  Christianity  consists.  Our  author,  how- 
ever, upon  the  whole,  is  not  deficient  in  such  views  of  religion; 
for,  in  his  general  strain  of  preaching,  as  he  is  extremely  pious,  so 
he  is,  at  the  same  time,  practical  and  moral. 

His  summing  up  of  the  whole  argument,  in  the  next  paragraph, 
is  elegant  and  beautiful;  and  such  concluding  views  of  the  sub- 
ject are  frequently  very  proper  and  useful :  '  Upon  these  grounds 
doth  the  duty  of  praise  stand,  and  these  are  the  obligations  that 
bind  us  to  the  performance  of  it.  It  is  the  end  of  our  being,  and 
the  very  rule  and  law  of  our  nature;  flowing  from  the  two  great 
fountains  of  human  action,  the  understanding  and  the  will,  natu- 
rally, and  almost  necessarily.  It  is  the  most  excellent  part  of  our 
religious  worship;  enduring  to  eternity,  after  the  rest  shall  be  done 
away ;  and  paid,  even  now,  in  the  frankest  manner,  with  the  least 
regard  to  our  own  interest.  It  recommends  itself  to  us  by  several 
peculiar  properties  and  advantages;  as  it  carries  more  pleasure 
in  it  than  all  other  kinds  of  devotion;  as  it  enlarges  and  exalts  the 
several  powers  of  the  mind;  as  it  breeds  in  us  an  exquisite  sense 
of  God's  honour,  and  a  willingness  to  promote  it  in  the  world  ;  as  ii 
teaches  us  to  be  humble  and  lowly  ourselves,  and  yet  preserves  us 
from  base  and  sordid  flattery,  from  bestowing  mean  and  undue 
praises  upon  others.' 

After  this,  our  author  addresses  himself  to  two  classes  of  men,  the 
careless  and  the  profane.  His  address  to  the  careless  is  beautiful  and 
pathetic ;  that  to  the  profane,  is  not  so  well  executed,  and  is  liable 
to  some  objection.  Such  addresses  appear  to  me  to  be,  on  several 
occasions,  very  useful  parts  of  a  discourse.  They  prevailed  much 
in  the  strain  of  preaching  before  the  restoration ;  and  perhaps,  since 
that  period,  have  been  too  much  neglected.  They  afford  an  oppor- 
tunity of  bringing  home  to  the  consciences  of  the  audience,  man) 
things,  which  in  the  course  of  the  sermon,  were,  perhaps,  deliver- 
ed in  the  abstract. 

I  shall  not  dwell  on  the  conclusion  of  the  sermon,  which  is  chief- 
ly employed  in  observations  on  the  posture  ol  nublie  affairs  at  that 
time.     Considered  upon  the  whole,  this  iiscoi  rse  of  Bishop  Atter- 


lect.  xxxi.]  INTRODUCTION  OF  A  DISCOURSE.  341 

bury's  is  both  useful  and  beautiful ;  though  I  have  ventured  to  point 
out  some  defects  in  it.  Seldom,  or  never,  can  we  expect  to  meet 
with  a  composition  of  any  kind,  which  is  absolutely  perfect  in  all  its 
parts  :  and  when  we  take  into  account  the  difficulties  which  I  before 
showed  to  attend  the  eloquence  of  the  pulpit,  we  have,  perhaps, 
less  reason  to  look  for  perfection  in  a  sermon,  than  in  any  other 
composition. 


LECTURE  XXXI. 


CONDUCT  OF  A  DISCOURSE  IN  ALL  ITS  PARTS.., 
INTRODUCTION,  DIVISION,  NARRATION,   AND 
EXPLICATION. 


I  have,  in  the  four  preceding  lectures,  considered  what  is  pecu 
liar  to  each  of  the  three  great  fields  of  public  speaking,  popular  as- 
semblies, the  bar,  and  the  pulpit.  I  am  now  to  treat  of  what  is  com- 
mon to  them  all;  of  the  conduct  of  a  discourse  or  oration,  in  gene 
ral.  The  previous  view  which  I  have  given  of  the  distinguishing  spirit 
and  character  of  different  kinds  of  public  speaking,  was  necessary 
for  the  proper  application  of  the  rules  which  I  am  about  to  deliver; 
and  as  I  proceed,  I  shall  further  point  out,  how  far  any  of  these  rules 
may  have  a  particular  respect  to  the  bar,  to  the  pulpit,  or  to  popu- 
lar courts. 

On  whatever  subject  any  one  intends  to  discourse,  he  will  most 
commonly  begin  with  some  introduction,  in  order  to  piepare  the 
minds  of  his  hearers  ;  he  will  then  state  his  subject,  and  explain  the 
facts  connected  with  it:  he  will  employ  arguments  for  establishing 
his  own  opinion,  and  overthrowing  that  of  his  antagonist;  he  may, 
perhaps,  if  there  be  room  for  it,  endeavour  to  touch  the  passions  of 
his  audience ;  and  after  having  said  all  he  thinks  proper,  he  will 
bring  his  discourse  to  a  close  by  some  peroration  or  conclusion. 
This  being  the  natural  train  of  speaking,  the  parts  that  compose  a 
regular  formal  oration,  are  these  six;  first,  the  exordium  or  intro- 
duction; secondly,  the  state,  and  the  division  of  the  subject;  third- 
ly, narration  or  explication  ;  fourthly,  the  reasoning  or  arguments; 
fifthly,  the  pathetic  part ;  and  lastly,  the  conclusion.  I  do  not  mean 
that  each  of  these  must  enter  into  every  public  discourse,  or  that 
they  must  enter  always  in  this  order.  There  is  no  reason  for  being 
so  formal  on  every  occasion ;  nay,  it  would  often  be  a  fault,  and 
would  render  a  discourse  pedantic  and  stiff.  There  may  be  many 
excellent  discourses  in  public,  where  several  of  these  parts  are  alto- 
gether wanting;  where  the  speaker,  for  instance,  uses  no  introduc- 
tion, but  enters  directly  on  his  subject ;  where  he  has  no  occasion 
either  to  divide  or  explain;  but  simply  reasons  on  one  side  of  the 
question,  and  then  finishes.  But  as  the  parts  which  I  have  mention- 
ed are  the  natural  constituent  parts  of  a  regular  oration ;  and  as  in 
every  discourse  whatever,  some  of  them  must  be  found,  itisneces- 


.142  INTRODUCTION  OF  A  DISCOURSE,  [leci    xxxi 

sary  to  our  present  purpose,  that  I  should  treat  of  each  of  them  (lis 
tinctly. 

I  begin,  of  course,  with  the  exordium  or  introduction.  This  is 
manifestly  common  to  all  the  three  kinds  of  public  speaking.  It  is 
not  a  rhetorical  invention.  It  is  founded  upon  nature,  and  suggest* 
ed  by  common  sense.  When  one  is  going  to  counsel  another; 
when  he  takes  upon  him  to  instruct,  or  to  reprove,  prudence  will  ge- 
nerally direct  him  not  to  do  it  abruptly,  but  to  use  some  preparation  ; 
to  begin  with  somewhat  that  may  incline  the  persons  to  whom  he 
addresses  himself,  to  judge  favourably  of  what  he  is  about  to  say, 
and  may  dispose  them  to  such  a  train  of  thought  as  will  forward 
and  assist  the  purpose  which  he  has  in  view.  This  is,  or  ought  to  be. 
the  main  scope  of  an  introduction.  Accordingly,Cicero  and  Quin- 
tilian  mention  three  ends,  to  one  or  other  of  which  itshoula  De  sub- 
servient :'Reddere  auditores  benevolos,  attentos,  dociles.' 

First,  to  conciliate  the  good  will  of  the  hearers ;  to  render  them 
benevolent,  or  well-affected  to  the  speaker  and  to  the  subject.  To- 
pics for  this  purpose  may,  in  causes  at  the  bar,  be  sometimes  taken 
from  the  particular  situation  of  the  speaker  himself,  or  of  his  client, 
or  from  the  character  or  behaviour  of  his  antagonists,  contrasted  with 
his  own  ;  on  other  occasions,  from  the  nature  of  the  subject,  as 
closely  connected  with  the  interest  of  the  hearers:  and,  in  general, 
from  the  modesty  and  good  intention  with  which  the  speaker  enters 
upon  his  subject.  The  second  end  of  an  introduction  is,  to  raise 
the  attention  of  the  hearers  ;  which  may  be  effected,  by  giving  them 
some  hints  of  the  importance,  dignity,  or  novelty  of  the  subject ; 
or  some  favourable  view  of  the  clearness  and  precision  with  which 
we  are  to  treat  it;  and  of  the  brevity  with  which  we  are  to  dis- 
course. The  third  end,  is  to  render  the  hearers  docile,  or  open  to 
persuasion  ;  for  which  end,  we  must  begin  with  studying  to  remove 
any  particular  prepossessions  they  may  have  contracted  against  the 
cause,  or  side  of  the  argument,  whic'i  we  espouse. 

Some  one  of  these  ends  should  be  proposed  by  every  introduc- 
tion. When  there  is  no  occasion  for  aiming  at  any  of  them  ;  when 
we  are  already  secure  of  the  good  will,  the  attention,  and  the  docili- 
ty of  the  audience,  as  may  often  be  the  case,  formal  introductions 
may,  without  any  prejudice,  be  omitted.  And  indeed,  when  they  serve 
for  no  purpose  but  mere  ostentation,  they  had,  for  the  most  part, 
better  be  omitted  ;  unless  as  far  as  respect  to  the  audience  makes  it 
decent,  that  a  speaker  should  not  break  in  upon  them  too  abruptly, 
but  by  a  short  exordium  prepare  them  for  what  he  is  going  to  say. 
Demosthenes'  introductions  are  always  short  and  simple ;  Cicero's 
are  fuller  and  more  artful. 

The  ancient  critics  distinguished  two  kinds  of  introductions,  which 
they  call  'principium,'  and  •  insinuation  •  Principium' is,  where 
the  orator  plainly  and  directly  professes  his  aim  in  speaking.  '  Insin- 
uations, where  a  larger  compass  must  be  taken;  and  where,  presuming 
the  disposition  of  the  audience  to  be  much  against  the  orator,  he 
must  gradually  reconcile  them  to  hearing  him,  before  he  plainly  dis- 
Cv>-.7orS  the  point  which  he  has  in  view. 


lect.  xxxi.]     INTRODUCTION  OF  A  DISCOURSE.  343 

Of  this  latter  sort  of  introduction,  we  have  an  admirable  instance 
in  Cicero's  second  oration  against  Rullus.  This  Rullus  was  tribune 
of  the  people,  and  had  proposed  an  Agrarian  law;  the  purpose  of 
which  was  to  create  a  decemvirate,  or  ten  commissioners,  with  ab- 
solute power  for  five  years,  over  all  the  lands  conquered  by  the  re 
public,  in  order  to  divide  them  among  the  citizens.  Such  laws  had 
often  been  proposed  by  factious  magistrates,  and  were  always  greedi 
ly  received  by  the  people.  Cicero  is  speaking  to  the  people;  he 
had  lately  been  made  consul  by  their  interest ;  and  his  first  attempt 
i.s  to  make  them  reject  this  law.  The  subject  was  extremely  deli- 
cate, and  required  much  art.  He  begins  with  acknowledging  all 
the  favours  which  he  had  received  from  the  people,  in  preference 
to  the  nobility.  He  professes  himself  the  creature  of  their  power, 
and  of  all  men  the  most  engaged  to  promote  their  interest.  He  de- 
clares, that  he  held  himself  to  be  the  consul  of  the  people  ;  and 
that  he  would  always  glory  in  preserving  the  character  of  a  popular 
magistrate.  But  to  be  popular,  he  observes,  is  an  ambiguous  word. 
He  understood  it  to  import  a  steady  attachment  to  the  real  interest 
of  the  people,  to  their  liberty,  their  ease,  and  their  peace ;  but  by 
some,  he  saw  it  was  abused,  and  made  a  cover  to  their  own  selfish 
and  ambitious  designs.  In  this  manner,  he  begins  to  draw  gradually 
nearer  to  his  purpose  of  attacking  the  proposal  of  Rullus  ;  but  still 
with  great  management  and  reserve.  He  protests,  that  he  is  far 
from  being  an  enemy  to  Agrarian  laws ;  he  gives  the  highest 
praises  to  the  Gracchi,  those  zealous  patrons  of  the  people ;  and  as- 
sures them,  that  when  he  first  heard  of  Rullus's  law,  he  had  resolv- 
ed to  support  it  if  he  found  it  for  their  interest;  but  that,  upon  ex- 
amining it,  he  found  it  calculated  to  establish  a  dominion  that  was 
inconsistent  with  liberty,  and  to  aggrandize  a  few  men  at  theexpense 
of  the  public  :  and  then  terminates  his  exordium,  with  telling  them 
that  he  is  going  to  give  his  reasons  for  being  of  this  opinion ;  but 
that  ifh is  reasons  shall  not  satisfy  them,  he  will  give  up  his  own  opin- 
ion and  embrace  theirs.  In  all  this  there  was  great  art.  His  elo- 
quence produced  the  intended  effect ;  and  the  people,  with  one 
voice,  rejected  this  Agrarian  law. 

Having  given  these  general  views  of  the  nature  and  end  of  an  in- 
troduction, I  proceed  to  lay  down  some  rules  for  the  proper  compo- 
sition of  it.  These  are  the  more  necessary,  as  this  is  a  part  of  the 
discourse  which  requires  no  small  care.  It  is  always  of  importance 
to  begin  well ;  to  make  a  favourable  impression  at  first  setting  out; 
when  the  minds  of  the  hearers,  vacant  as  yet  and  free,  are  most  dis 
posed  to  receive  any  impression  easily.  I  must  add,  too,  that  a  good 
introduction  is  often  found  to  be  extremely  difficult.  Few  parts  of 
the  discourse  give  the  composer  more  trouble,  or  are  attended  with 
more  nicety  in  the  execution. 

The  first  rule  is,  that  the  introduction  should  be  easy  and  natural. 
The  subject  must  always  suggest  it.  It  must  appear,  as  Cicero  beau- 
tifully expresses  it,  'Effioruisse  penitus  ex  re  de  qua  turn  agitar.'* 

*  '  To  have  sprung  up,  of  its  own  accord,  from  the  matter  which  is  under  considers 

tiOfi 


344  INTRODUCTION  OF  A  DISCOURSE,   [lect.  xxxi 

It  is  too  cc-mmon  a  fault  in  introductions,  that  they  are  taken  from 
some  common-place  topic,  which  has  no  peculiar  relation  to  the 
subject  in  hand  ;  by  which  means  they  stand  apart,  like  pieces  de- 
tached from  the  rest  of  the  discourse.  Of  this  kind  are  Sallust's  in- 
troductions, prefixed  to  his  Catilinarian  and  Jugurthine  wars.  They 
might  as  well  have  been  introductions  to  any  other  history,  or  to  any 
other  treatise  whatever:  and,  therefore,  though  elegant  in  them 
selves,  they  must  be  considered  as  blemishes  in  the  work,  from  want 
of  due  connexion  with  it.  Cicero,  though  abundantly  correct  in 
this  particular  in  his  orations,  yet  is  not  so  in  his  other  works.  It  ap- 
pears from  a  letter  of  his  to  Atticus,  (L.  xvi.  6.)  that  it  was  his  cus- 
tom to  prepare,  at  his  leisure,  a  collection  of  different  introductions 
or  prefaces,  ready  to  be  prefixed  to  any  work  that  he  might  after- 
wards publish.  In  consequence  of  this  strange  method  of  composing, 
it  happened  to  him,  to  employ  the  same  introduction  twice  without 
remembering  it;  prefixing  it  to  two  different  works.  Upon  Atticus 
informing  him  of  this,  he  acknowledges  the  mistake,  and  sends  him 
a  new  introduction. 

In  order  to  render  introductions  natural  and  easy,  it  is,  in  my  opin 
ion,  a  good  rule,  that  they  should  not  be  planned  till  after  one  has 
meditated  in  his  own  mind  the  substance  of  his  discourse.  Then, 
and  not  till  then,  he  should  begin  to  think  of  some  proper  and  na- 
tural introduction.  By  taking  a  contrary  course,  and  labouring  in 
the  first  place  on  an  introduction,  every  one  who  is  accustomed  to 
composition  will  often  find,  that  either  he  is  led  to  lay  hold  of  some 
common-place  topic,  or  that,  instead  of  the  introduction  being  ac- 
commodated to  the  discourse,  he  is  obliged  to  accommodate  the 
whole  discourse  to  the  introduction  which  he  had  previously  writ- 
ten. Cicero  makes  this  remark;  though,  as  we  have  seen,  his 
practice  was  not  always  conformable  to  his  own  rule.  '  Omnibus 
rebus  consideratis,  turn  denique  id,  quod  primum  est  dicendum, 
postremum  soleo  cogitare,  quo  utar  exordio.  Nam  si  quando  id 
primum  invenire  volui,  nullum  mihi  occurrit  nisi  aut  exile,  aut  nuga- 
torium,  aut  vulgare.'*  After  the  mind  has  been  once  warmed  and 
put  in  train,  by  close  meditation  on  the  subject,  materials  for  th*» 
preface  will  then  suggest  themselves  much  more  readily. 

In  the  second  place,  in  an  introduction,  correctness  should  be 
carefully  studied  in  the  expression.  This  is  requisite  on  account 
of  the  situation  of  the  hearers.  They  are  then  more  disposed 
to  criticise  than  at  any  other  period;  they  are,  as  yet,  unoccupied 
with  the  subject  or  the  arguments;  their  attention  is  wholly  direct- 
ed to  the  speaker's  style  and  manner.  Something  must  be  done, 
therefore,  to  prepossess  them  in  his  favour;  though,  for  the  same 
reasons,  too  much  art  must  be  avoided  ;  for  it  will  be  more  easily  de- 
tected at  that  time  than  afterwards,    and  will  derogate  from  persua- 

*  '  When  1  have  planned  and  digested  all  the  materials  of  my  discourse,  it  is  my  cus- 
tom to  think,  in  the  last  place,  of  the  introduction  with  which  I  am  to  begin.  For  if  at  any 
time  I  have  endeavoured  to  invent  an  introduction  first,  nothing  has  ever  occurred  to 
me  for  that  purpose,  but  what  was  trifling,  nugatory,  and  vulgar.' 


lect.  xxxi.]   INTRODUCTION  OF  A  DISCOURSE.  34* 

sion  in  all  that  follows.  A  correct  plainness,  a:  A  elegant  simpli- 
city, is  the  proper  character  of  an  introduction  :  '  Ut  videamur,'  says 
Quintilian,  '  accurate  non  callide  dicere/ 

In  the  third  place,  modesty  is  another  character  which  it  must  carry. 
All  appearances  of  modesty  are  favourable  and  prepossessing.  If 
the  orator  set  out  with  an  air  of  arrogance  and  ostentation,  the  self- 
love  and  pride  of  the  hearers  will  be  presently  awakened,  and  will 
follow  him  with  a  very  suspicious  eye  throughout  all  his  progress. 
His  modesty  should  discover  itself  not  only  in  his  expressions  at  the 
beginning,  but  in  his  whole  manner;  in  his  looks,  in  his  gestures,  in 
the  tone  o.  his  voiee.  Every  auditory  take  in  good  part  those  marks 
of  respect  and  awe,  which  are  paid  to  them  by  one  who  addresses 
them.  Indeed,the  modesty  of  an  introduction  should  never  betray 
any  thing  mean  or  abject.  It  is  always  of  great  use  to  an  orator, 
that  together  with  modesty  and  deference  to  his  hearers,  he  should 
show  a  certain  sense  of  dignity,  arising  from  a  persuasion  of  the 
justice  or  importance  of  the  subject  on  which  he  is  to  speak. 

The  modesty  of  an  introduction  requires,  that  it  promise  not  too 
much.  i  Non  fumum  ex  fulgore,  sed  ex  fumo  dare  lucem.'*  This 
certainly  is  the  general  rule,  that  an  orator  should  not  put  forth  all 
his  strength  at  the  beginning,  but  should  rise  and  grow  upon  us,  as 
his  discourse  advances.  There  are  cases,  however,  in  which  it  is 
allowable  for  him  to  set  out  from  the  first  in  a  high  and  bold  tone: 
as,  for  instance,  when  he  rises  to  defend  some  cause  which  has  been 
much  run  down,  and  decried  by  the  public.  Too  modest  a  begin- 
ning might  be  then  like  a  confession  of  guilt.  By  the  boldness  and 
strength  of  his  exordium,  he  must  endeavour  to  stem  the  tide  that 
is  against  him,  and  to  remove  prejudices,  by  encountering  them 
without  fear.  In  subjects,  too,of  a  declamatory  nature,  and  in  ser- 
mons, where  the  subject  is  striking,  a  magnificent  introduction  has 
sometimes  a  good  effect,  if  it  be  properly  supported  in  the  sequel. 
Thus  Bishop  Atterbury,  in  beginning  an  eloquent  sermon,  preach- 
ed on  the  30th  of  January,  the  anniversary  of  what  is  called  King 
Charles's  Martyrdom,  sets  out  in  this  pompous  manner:  'This  is  a 
day  of  trouble,  of  rebuke,  and  of  blasphemy;  distinguished  in  the 
calendar  of  our  church,  and  the  annals  of  our  nation,  by  the  suffer- 
ings of  an  excellent  prince,  who  fell  a  sacrifice  to  the  rage  of  his  re- 
bellious subjects;  and,  by  his  fall,  derived  infamy,  misery,  and  guilt 
on  them,  and  their  sinful  posterity.'  Bossuet,  Flechier,  and  the 
other  celebrated  French  preachers,  very  often  begin  their  discour- 
ses with  laboured  and  sublime  introductions.  These  raise  atten- 
tion, and  throw  a  lustre  on  the  subject;  but  let  every  speaker  be 
much  on  his  guard  against  striking  a  higher  note  at  the  beginning, 
than  he  is  able  to  keep  up  in  his  progress. 

•  He  does  not  lavish  at  a  blaze  his  fire, 
Sudden  to  glare,  and  then  in  smoke  expire  \ 
But  rises  from  a  cloud  of  smoke  to  light, 
And  pours  his  specious  miracles  to  sight. 

Hor.  A ps.  Poet.  Frakcjs. 
44 


346  INTRODUCTION  OF  A  DISCOURSE,   [lect.axxi 

In  the  fourth  place,  an  introduction  should  usually  be  carried  or 
in  the  calm  manner.  This  is  seldom  the  place  for  vehemence  and 
passion.  Emotions  must  rise  as  the  discourse  advances.  The  minds 
of  the  hearers  must  be  gradually  prepared,  before  the  speaker  can 
venture  on  strong  and  passionate  sentiments.  The  exceptions  to 
this  rule  are,  when  the  subject  is  such,  that  the  very  mention  of  it 
naturally  awakens  some  passionate  emotion  ;  or  when  the  unexpect- 
ed presence  of  some  person  or  object,  in  a  popular  assembly,  inflames 
the  speaker,  and  makes  him  break  forth  with  unusual  warmth.  Ei- 
ther of  these  will  justify  what  is  called  the  Exordium  ab  abmpto. 
Thus  the  appearance  of  Catiline  in  the  senate  renders  the  vehement 
beginning  of  Cicero's  first  oration  against  him  very  natural  and 
proper:  '  Quousque  tandem,  Catilina,  abutere  patientia  nostra?' 
And  thus  Bishop  Atterbury,  in  preaching  from  this  text, '  Blessed  is 
he,  whosoever  shall  not  be  offended  in  me,'  ventures  on  breaking 
forth  with  this  bold  exordium:  '  And  can  any  man  then  be  offended 
in  thee,  blessed  Jesus?'  which  address  to  our  Saviour  he  continues 
for  a  page  or  two,  till  he  enters  on  the  division  of  his  subject.  But 
such  introductions  as  these  should  be  hazarded  by  very  few,  as  they 
promise  so  much  vehemence  and  unction  through  the  rest  of  the  dis- 
course, that  it  is  very  difficult  to  fulfil  the  expectations  of  the  hearers. 

At  the  same  time,  though  the  introduction  is  not  the  place  in 
which  warm  emotions  are  usually  to  be  attempted,  yet  I  must 
take  notice,  that  it  ought  to  prepare  the  way  for  such  as  are  de- 
signed to  be  raised  in  subsequent  parts  of  the  discourse.  The 
orator  should,  in  the  beginning,  turn  the  minds  of  his  hearers 
towards  those  sentiments  and  feelings  which  he  seeks  to  awaken 
in  the  course  of  his  speech.  According,  for  instance,  as  it  is 
compassion,  or  indignation,  or  contempt,  on  which  his  discourse 
is  to  rest,  he  ought  to  sow  the  seeds  of  these  in  his  introduction ; 
he  ought  to  begin  with  breathing  that  spirit  which  he  means  to  in- 
spire. Much  of  the  orator's  art  and  ability  is  shown,  in  thus  strik- 
ing properly  at  the  commencement,  the  key  note,  if  we  may  so 
express  it,  of  the  rest  of  his  oration. 

In  the  fifth  place,  it  is  a  rule  in  introductions,  not  to  anticipate 
any  material  part  of  the  subject.  When  topics,  or  arguments, 
which  are  afterwards  to  be  enlarged  upon,  are  hinted  at,  and,  in 
part,  brought  forth  in  the  introduction,  they  lose  the  grace  of 
novelty  jpon  their  second  appearance.  The  impression  intended 
to  be  made  by  any  capital  thought,  is  always  made  with  the 
greatest  advantage,  when  it  is  made  entire,  and  in  its  proper  place. 

In  the  last  place,  the  introduction  ought  to  be  proportioned, 
both  in  length  and  in  kind,  to  the  discourse  that  is  to  follow: 
in  length,  as  nothing  can  be  more  absurd  than  to  erect  a  very 
great  portico  before  a  small  building;  and  in  kind,  as  it  is  no  less 
absurd  to  overcharge,  with  superb  ornaments,  the  portico  of  a 
plain  dwelling-house,  or  to  make  the  entrance  to  a  monument  as 
gay  as  that  to  an  arbour.  Common  sense  directs  that  every  part  o* 
i  discourse  should  be  suited  to  the  strain  and  spirit  of  the  whole. 


lect.xxxi.]  INTRODUCTION  OF  A  DISCOURSE.  347 

These  are  the  principal  rules  that  relate  to  introductions.  They 
are  adapted,  in  a  great  measure, equally,  to  discourses  of  all  kinds. 
In  pleadings  at  the  bar,  or  speeches  in  public  assemblies,  particulai 
care  must  be  taken  not  to  employ  any  introduction  of  that  kind, 
which  the  adverse  party  may  lay  hold  of,  and  turn  to  his  advantage. 
To  this  inconvenience  all  those  introductions  are  exposed,  which 
are  taken  from  general  and  common-place  topics;  and  it  nevei 
fails  to  give  an  adversary  a  considerable  triumph,  if,  by  giving  a 
small  turn  to  something  we  had  said  in  our  exordium,  he  can  ap- 
pear to  convert,  to  his  own  favour,  the  principles  with  which  we 
had  set  out,  in  beginning  our  attack  upon  him.  In  the  case  of  re- 
plies, Quintilian  makes  an  observation  which  is  very  worthy  of  no- 
tice; that  introductions,  drawn  from  something  that  has  been  said 
in  the  course  of  the  debate,  have  always  a  peculiar  grace;  and  the 
reason  he  gives  for  it  is  just  and  sensible:  'Multum  gratiee  exordio 
est,  quod  ab  actione  diversae  partis  materiam  trahit;  hoc  ipso,  quod 
non  compositum  domi,  sed  ibi  atque  e  re  natum;  et  facilitate  famam 
ingenii  auget;  et  facie  simplicis,  sumptique  e  proximo  sermonis, 
fidem  qnoque  acquirit ;  adeo,  ut  etiamsi  relique  scripta  atque  ela- 
borata  sint,  tamen  videatur  tota  extemporalis  oratio,  cujus  iuitium 
nihil  preparatum  habuisse  manifestum  est.'* 

In  sermons,  such  a  practice  as  this  cannot  take  place;  and,  in- 
deed, in  composing  sermons,  few  things  are  more  difficult  than  to 
remove  an  appearance  of  stiffness  from  an  introduction,  when  a 
formal  one  is  used.  The  French  preachers,  as  I  before  observed, 
are  often  very  splendid  and  lively  in  their  introductions;  but, 
among  us,  attempts  of  this  kind  are  not  always  so  successful. 
When  long  introductions  are  formed  upon  some  common-place  topic, 
as  the  desire  of  happiness  being  natural  to  man,  or  the  like,  they 
never  fail  o[  being  tedio'H.  Variety  should  be  studied  in  this  part 
of  composition  as  much  as  possible;  often  it  may  be  proper  to  be- 
gin without  any  introduction  at  all,  unless,  perhaps,  one  or  two 
sentences.  Explanatory  introductions  from  the  context,  are  the 
most  simple  of  any,  and  frequently  the  best  that  can  be  used;  but 
as  they  are  in  hazard  of  becoming  dry,  they  should  never  be  long. 
A  historical  introduction  has,  generally,  a  happy  effect  to  rouse  at- 
tention, when  one  can  lay  hold  upon  some  noted  fact  that  is  con- 
nected with  the  text  or  the  discourse,  and,  by  a  proper  illustration 
of  it,  open  the  way  to  the  subject  that  is  to  be  treated  of. 

After  the  introduction,  what  commonly  comes  next  in  older, 
is  the  proposition,  or  enunciation  of  the  subject;  concerning 
which  there  is  nothing  to  be  said,  but  that  it  should  be  as  clear  and 

*  <  An  introduction,  which  is  founded  upon  the  pleading  of  the  opposite  party,  is 
extremely  graceful ;  for  this  reason,  that  it  appears  not  to  have  been  meditated  al 
home,  but  to  have  taken  rise  from  the  business,  and  to  have  been  con_posed  on  the 
spot.  Hence,  it  gives  to  the  speaker  the  reputation  of  a  quick  invention,  and  adds 
weight  likewise  to  his  discourse,  as  artless  and  unlaboured  :  insomuch,  that  though  all 
the  rest  of  his  oration  should  be  studied  and  written,  yet  the  whole  discourse  has  the 
appearance  of  being  extemporary,  as  it  is  evident  that  the  introduction  to  it  was  unpre 
meditated.' 

3D 


348  INTRODUCTION  OF  A  DISCOURSE,  [lect.  xxxi 

distinct  as  possible,  and  expressed  in  few  and  plain  words,  with- 
out the  least  affectation.  To  this  generally  succeeds  the  division,  or 
the  laying  down  the  method  of  the  discourse  ;  on  which  it  is  neces 
sary  to  make  some  observations.  I  do  not  mean,  that  in  every 
discourse,  a  formal  division,or  distribution  of  it  into  parts,  is  requi- 
site. There  are  many  occasions  of  public  speaking,  when  this  is 
neither  requisite  nor  would  be  proper ;  when  the  discourse,  perhaps, 
is  to  be  short,  or  only  one  point  is  to  be  treated  of;  or  when  the 
speaker  does  not  choose  to  warn  his  hearers  of  the  method  he  is  to 
follow,  or  of  the  conclusion  to  which  he  seeks  to  bring  them.  Order 
of  one  kind  or  other  is,  indeed,  essential  to  every  good  discourse; 
that  is,  every  thing  should  be  so  arranged,  as  that  what  goes  before 
may  give  light  and  force  to  what  follows.  But  this  may  be  accom- 
plished by  means  of  a  concealed  method.  What  we  call  division 
is,  when  the  method  is  propounded  in  form  to  the  hearers. 

The  discourse  in  which  this  sort  of  division  most  commonly 
takes  place,  is  a  sermon ;  and  a  question  has  been  moved,  whether 
this  method  of  laying  down  heads,  as  it  is  called,  be  the  best 
method  of  preaching.  A  very  able  judge,  the  Archbishop  of  Cam- 
bray,  in  his  Dialogues  on  Eloquence,  declares  strongly  against 
it.  He  observes,  that  it  is  a  modern  invention ;  that  it  was  never 
practised  by  the  Fathers  of  the  church  :  and,  what  is  certainly 
true,  that  it  took  its  rise  from  the  schoolmen,  when  metaphysics 
began  to  be  introduced  into  preaching.  He  is  of  opinion,  that  it 
renders  a  sermon  stiff;  that  it  breaks  the  unity  of  the  discourse  ; 
and  that,  by  the  natural  connexion  of  one  part  with  another,  the  at- 
tention of  the  hearers  would  be  carried  along  the  whole  with  more 
advantage. 

But  notwithstanding  his  authority  and  his  arguments,  I  cannot 
help  being  of  opinion,  that  the  present  method  of  dividing  a  ser- 
mon into  heads,  ought  not  to  be  laid  aside.  Established  practice 
has  now  given  it  so  much  weight,  that,  were  there  nothing  more 
in  its  favour,  it  would  be  dangerous  for  any  preacher  to  deviate  so 
far  from  the  common  track.  But  the  practice  itself  has  also,  in 
my  judgment,  much  reason  on  its  side.  If  formal  partitions  give  a 
sermon  less  of  the  oratorical  appearance,  they  render  it,  however, 
more  clear,  more  easily  apprehended,  and,  of  course,  more  instruc- 
tive to  the  bulk  of  hearers,  which  is  always  the  main  object  to  be 
kept  in  view.  The  heads  of  a  sermon  are  great  assistances  to  the 
memory  and  recollection  of  a  hearer.  They  serve  also  to  fix  his 
■attention.  They  enable  him  more  easily  to  keep  pace  with  the 
progress  of  the  discourse;  they  give  him  pauses  and  resting  places, 
where  he  can  reflect  on  what  has  been  said,  and  look  forward  to 
what  is  to  follow.  They  are  attended  with  this  advantage  too, 
that  they  give  the  audience  the  opportunity  of  knowing,  before- 
hand, when  they  are  to  be  released  from  the  fatigue  of  attention, 
and  thereby  make  them  follow  the  speaker  more  patiently.  <  Re- 
ficit  audientem,'  says  Quintilian,  taking  notice  of  this  very  advan 
tage  of  divisions  in  other  discourses,  '  Reficit  audientem  certo  sin- 


i.ect.  xxxi.]         DIVISION  OF  A  DISCOURSE.  M 

gularum  partium  fine;  non  aliter  quam  facientibus  i\.er,  multum 
detrahunt  fatigationis  notata  spatia  inscriptis  lapidibus :  nam  et  ex- 
hausti  Jaboris  nosse  mensuram  voluptati  est;  et  hortatur  ad  reliqua 
fortius  exequenda,  scire  quantum  supersit.'*  With  regard  to  break- 
ing the  unity  of  a  discourse,  I  cannot  be  of  opinion  that  there 
arises,  from  that  quarter,  any  argument  against  the  method  I  am 
defending.  If  the  unity  be  broken,  it  is  to  the  nature  of  the  heads, 
or  topics  of  which  the  speaker  treats,  that  this  is  to  be  imputed  ; 
not  to  his  laying  them  down  in  form.  On  the  contrary,  if  his  heads 
be  well  chosen,  his  marking  them  out,  and  distinguishing  them, 
in  place  of  impairing  the  unity  of  the  whole,  renders  it  more  con- 
spicuous and  complete ;  by  showing  how  all  the  parts  of  a  discourse 
hang  upon  one  another,  and  tend  to  one  point. 

In  a  sermon,  or  in  a  pleading,  or  any  discourse,  where  division  is 
proper  to  be  used,  the  most  material  rules  are, 

First,  That  the  several  parts  into  which  the  subject  is  divided 
be  really  distinct  from  one  another;  that  is,  that  no  one  include 
another.  It  were  a  very  absurd  division,  for  instance,  if  one  should 
propose  to  treat,  first,  of  the  advantages  of  virtue,  and  next,  of 
those  of  justice  or  temperance ;  because,  the  first  head  evidently 
comprehends  the  second,  as  a  genus  does  the  species ;  which  me- 
thod of  proceeding  involves  the  subject  in  indistinctness  and  disorder. 

Secondly,  In  division,  we  must  take  care  to  follow  the  order  of 
natuie;  beginning  with  the  simplest  points,  such  as  are  easiest  ap- 
prehended, and  necessary  to  be  first  discussed;  and  proceeding 
thence  to  those  which  are  built  upon  the  former,  and  which  suppose 
them  to  be  known.  We  must  divide  the  subject  into  those  parts, 
into  which  most  easily  and  naturally  it  is  resolved;  that  it  may 
seem  to  split  itself,  and  not  to  be  violently  torn  asunder:  'Divi- 
dere,'  as  is  commonly  said,  f  non  frangere.' 

Thirdly,  The  several  members  of  a  division  ought  to  exhaust  the 
subject;  otherwise  we  do  not  make  a  complete  division  ;  we  exhi- 
bit the  subject  by  pieces  and  corners  only,  without  giving  any  such 
plan  as  displays  the  whole. 

Fourthly,  The  terms  in  which  our  partitions  are  expressed, 
should  be  as  concise  as  possible.  Avoid  all  circumlocution  here. 
Admit  not  a  single  word  but  what  is  necessary.  Precision  is  to  be 
studied,  above  all  things,  in  laying  down  a  method.  It  is  this  which 
chiefly  makes  a  division  appear  neat  and  elegant;  when  the  several 
heads  are  propounded  in  the  clearest,  most  expressive,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  the  fewest  words  possible.  This  never  fails  to  strike 
the  hearers  agreeably;  and  is,  at  the  same  time,  of  great  conse- 
quence towards  making  the  divisions  be  more  easily  remembered 

Fifthly,  Avoid  an  unnecessary  multiplication  of  heads.  To  split 
a  subject  into  a  great  many  minute  parts,  by  divisions  and  subdivi 

*  'The  conclusion  of  each  head  is  a  relief  to  the  hearers;  just  as,  upon  a  journey, 
the  mile-stones  which  are  set  up  on  the  road,  serve  to  diminish  the  traveller's  fatigue 
For  we  are  always  pleased  with  seeing  our  labour  begin  to  lessen  ;  and,  by  calculating 
\oxv  much  remains,  are  stirred  up  to  finish  our  task  more  cheerfully.' 


350  NARRATION  AND  EXPLICATION,  [lect.  xxxi 

sions  without  end,  has  always  a  bad  effect  in  speaking.  It  may  be 
proper  in  a  logical  treatise;  but  it  makes  an  oration  appear  hard 
and  dry,  and  unnecessarily  fatigues  the  memory.  In  a  sermon, 
there  may  be  from  three  to  fhre  or  six  heads,  including  subdivi- 
sions ;  seldom  should  there  be  more. 

In  a  sermon,  or  in  pleading  at  the  bar,  few  things  are  of  great- 
er consequence,  than  a  proper  or  happy  division.  It  should  be  studi- 
ed with  much  accuracy  and  care;  for  if  one  take  a  wrong  method  at 
first  setting  out,  it  will  lead  him  astray  in  all  that  follows.  It  will 
render  the  whole  discourse  either  perplexed  or  languid  ;  and  though 
the  hearers  may  not  be  able  to  tell  where  the  fault  or  disorder  lies, 
they  will  be  sensible  there  is  a  disorder  somewhere,  and  find  them- 
selves little  affected  by  what  is  spoken.  The  French  writers  of  ser- 
mons study  neatness  and  elegance  in  laying  down  their  heads,  much 
more  than  the  English  do;  whose  distributions,  though  sensible  and 
just,  yet  are  often  inartificial  and  verbose.  Among  the  French, 
however,  too  much  quaintness  appears  in  their  divisions,  with  an 
affectation  of  always  setting  out  either  with  two,  or  with  three, 
general  heads  of  discourse.  A  division  of  Massillon's  on  this  text, 
'It  is  finished,'  has  been  much  extolled  by  the  French  critics: — 
'This  imports,'  says  the  preacher,  'the  consummation,  first,  of  jus- 
tice on  the  part  of  God;  secondly,  of  wickedness  on  the  part  of 
men ;  thirdly,  of  love  on  the  part  of  Christ.'  This  also  of  Bourda- 
loue's  has  been  much  praised, from  these  wrords:  'My  peace  I  give 
unto  you.'  'Peace,'  says  he,  'first  to  the  understanding,  by  sub- 
mission to  faith;  secondly,  to  the  heart,  by  submission  to  the  law.' 

The  next  constituent  part  of  a  discourse,  which  I  mentioned, 
was  narration  or  explication.  I  put  these  two  together,  both  be- 
cause they  fall  nearly  under  the  same  rules,  and  because  they  com- 
monly answer  the  same  purpose;  serving  to  illustrate  the  cause  or 
the  subject  of  which  the  orator  treats,  before  he  proceeds  to  argue 
either  on  one  side  or  other;  or  to  make  any  attempt  for  interesting 
the  passions  of  the  hearers. 

In  pleadings  at  the  bar,  narration  is  often  a  very  important  part 
of  the  discourse,  and  requires  to  be  particularly  attended  to.  Be- 
sides its  being  in  any  case  no  easy  matter  to  relate  with  grace  and 
propriety;  there  is  in  narrations  at  the  bar,  a  peculiar  difficulty.  The 
pleader  must  say  nothing  but  what  is  true;  and,  at  the  same  time, 
he  must  avoid  saying  any  thing  that  will  hurt  his  cause.  The  facts 
which  he.  relates  are  to  be  the  ground-work  of  all  his  future  reason- 
ing. To  recount  them  so  as  to  keep  strictly  within  the  bounds  of 
truth,  and  yet  to  present  them  under  the  colours  most  favourable  to 
his  cause;  to  place,  in  the  most  striking  light,  every  circumstance 
which  is  to  his  advantage,  and  to  soften  and  weaken  such  as  make 
against  him,  demand  no  small  exertion  of  skill  and  dexterity.  He 
must  always  remember,  that  if  he  discovers  too  much  art,  he  defeats 
his  own  purpose,  and  creates  a  distrust  of  his  sincerity.  Quintihau 
very  properly  directs,  'Effugienda  in  hac  prsecipue  parte,  omnis 
rcalliditatis  suspicio;  neque  enim  se  usquam  magis  custodit  judex. 


lect.  xxxi.]  NARRATION  AND  EXPLICATION.  351 

quam  cum  narrat  orator:  nihil  turn  videatur  fictum;  ninil  sollici- 
tum ;  omnia  potius  a  causa,  quam  ab  oratore,  profecta  videantur.'* 

To  be  clear  and  distinct,  to  be  probable,  and  to  be  concise,  are 
the  qualities  which  critics  chiefly  require  in  narration;  each  oi 
which  carries  sufficiently  the  evidence  of  its  importance.  Distinct- 
ness belongs  to  the  whole  train  of  the  discourse,  but  is  especially 
requisite  in  narration,  which  ought  to  throw  light  on  all  that  fol- 
lows. A  fact,  or  a  single  circumstance  left  in  obscurity,  and  mis- 
apprehended by  the  judge,  may  destroy  the  effect  of  all  the  argu- 
ment and  reasoning  which  the  speaker  employs.  If  his  narration  be 
improbable,  the  judge  will  not  regard  it;  and  if  it  be  tedious  and 
diffuse,  he  will  be  tired  of  it,  and  forget  it.  In  order  to  produce  dis- 
tinctness, besides  the  study  of  the  general  rules  of  perspicuity  which 
were  formerly  given,  narration  requires  a  particular  attention  to  as- 
certain clearly  the  names,  the  dates,  the  places,  and  every  other  ma- 
terial circumstance  of  the  facts  recounted.  In  order  to  be  probable 
in  narration,  it  is  material  to  enter  into  the  characters  of  the  per- 
sons of  whom  we  speak,  and  to  show,  that  their  actions  proceeded 
from  such  motives  as  are  natural,  and  likely  to  gain  belief.  In  order 
to  be  as  concise  as  the  subject  will  admit,  it  is  necessary  to  throw 
out  all  superfluous  circumstances;  the  rejection  of  which  will  like 
wise  tend  to  make  our  narration  more  forcible,  and  more  clear. 

Cicero  is  very  remarkable  for  his  talent  of  narration ;  and  from 
the  examples  in  his  orations  much  may  be  learned.  The  narration, 
for  instance,  in  the  celebrated  oration  pro  Milone,  has  been  often 
and  justly  admired.  His  scope  is  to  show,  that  though  in  fact  Clo- 
dius  was  killed  by  Milo  or  his  servants,  yet  that  it  was  only  in  self- 
defence;  and  that  the  design  had  been  laid,  not  by  Milo  against 
Clodius,  but  by  Clodius  against  Milo's  life.  All  the  circumstances 
for  rendering  this  probable  are  painted  with  wonderful  art.  In  re 
lating  the  manner  of  Milo's  setting  out  from  Rome,  he  gives  the 
most  natural  description  of  a  family  excursion  to  the  country,  under 
which  it  was  impossible  that  any  bloody  design  could  be  conceal- 
ed. '  He  remained,'  says  he,  *  in  the  senate  house  that  day,  till  all 
the  business  was  over.  He  came  home,  changed  his  clothes  deliberate- 
ly, and  waited  for  some  time,  till  his  wife  had  got  all  her  things  ready 
for  going  with  him  in  his  carriage  to  the  country.  He  did  not  set 
out,  till  such  time  as  Clodius  might  easily  have  been  in  Rome,  if  he 
had  not  been  lying  in  wait  for  Milo  by  the  way.  By  and  by,  Clodius 
met  him  on  the  road,  on  horse-back,  like  a  man  prepared  for  action ; 
no  carriage,  not  his  wife,  as  was  usual,  nor  any  family  equipage 
along  with  him :  whilst  Milo,  who  is  supposed  to  be  meditating 
slaughter  and  assassination,  is  travelling  in  a  carriage  with  his  wife, 
trapped  up  in  his  cloak,  embarrassed  with  baggage,  and  attended 

*  '  In  this  part  of  discourse,  the  speaker  must  be  ,ery  careful  to  shun  every  appear 
ance  of  art  and  cunning.  For  there  is  no  time  at  which  the  judge  is  more  upon  his 
guard,  than  when  the  pleader  is  relating  facts.     Let  nothing  then  seem  feigned :  noth  • 

ng  anxiously  concealed.     Let  all  that  is  said,  appear  to  arise  from  the  cause  itself,  ana 

ioi  to  be  the  work  of  the  orator.' 


352  NARRATION  AND  EXPLICATION,  [lect.  xxxi 

by  a  great  train  of  women-servants,  and  boys.'  He  goes  on  describ- 
ing the  rencounter  that  followed;  Clodius's  servants  attacking  those 
of  Mi ib,  and  killing  the  driver  of  his  carriage;  Milo  jumping  out, 
throwing  off  his  cloak,  and  making  the  best  defence  he  could,  while 
Clodius's  servants  endeavoured  to  surround  him;  and  then  con- 
cludes his  narration  with  a  very  delicate  and  happy  stroke.  He 
joes  not  say  in  plain  words,  that  Milo's  servants  killed  Clodius,  but 
that  'in  the  midst  of  the  tumult,  Milo's  servants,  without  the  or 
ders,  without  the  knowledge,  without  the  presence  of  their  master, 
did  what  every  master  would  have  wished  his  servants,  in  like  con 
/tincture,  to  have  done.'* 

•  In  sermons,  where  there  is  seldom  any  occasion  for  narration, 
explication  of  the  subject  to  be  discoursed  on,  corner  in  the  place  of 
narration  at  the  bar,  and  is  to  be  taken  up  much  on  the  same  tone; 
that  is,  it  must  be  concise,  clear,  and  distinct:  and  in  a  style  correct 
and  elegant,  rather  than  highly  adorned.  To  explain  the  doctrine 
of  the  text  with  propriety ;  to  give  a  full  and  perspicuous  account  of 
the  nature  of  that  virtue  or  duty  which  forms  the  subject  of  the  dis 
course,  is  properly  the  didactic  part  of  preaching  ;  on  the  right  exe- 
cution of  which  much  depends  for  all  that  comes  afterwards  ?n  the 
way  of  persuasion.  The  great  art  of  succeeding  in  it,  is  to  med-tate 
profoundly  on  the  subject,  so  as  to  be  able  to  place  it  in  a  clear  ind 
strong  point  of  view.  Consider  what  light  other  passages  of  scrip 
*ure  throw  upon  it;  consider  whether  it  be  a  subject  nearly  related 
to  some  other  from  which  it  is  proper  to  distinguish  it ;  considei 
whether  it  can  be  illustrated  to  advantage  by  comparing  it  with,  01 
opposing  it  to  some  other  thing  ;  by  inquiring  into  causes,  or  trac 
ing  effects;  by  pointing  out  examples,  or  appealing  to  the  feelings 
of  the  hearers;  that  thus,  a  definite,  precise,  circumstantial  view 
may  be  afforded  of  the  doctrine  to  be  inculcated.  Let  the  preacher 
be  persuaded,  that  by  such  distinct  and  apt  illustrations  of  the 
known  truths  of  religion, he  may  both  display  great  merit  in  the 
way  of  composition,  and,  what  he  ought  to  consider  as  far  more  va- 
luable, render  his  discourses  weighty,  instructive,  and  useful. 

**  '  Milo,  cum  in  senatu  fuisset  eo  die,  quoad  senatus  dimissus  est,  doraum  venit 
Calceos  et  vestimenta  mutavit ;  paulisper,  duin  se  uxor  (at  fit)  comparat,  commoratus 
est ;  deinde  profectus  est,  id  temporis  cum  jam  Clodius,  si  quidem  eo  die  Romam  ven- 
turus  erat,  redire  potuisset.  Obviam  fit  ei  Clodius  expeditus,  in  equo,  nulla  rheda,  nul- 
lis  impedimentis,  nullis  Graecis  comitibus,  ut  solebat;  sine  uxore,  quod  nunquam  fece. 
Cum  hie  insidiator,  qui  iter  illud  ad  caedem  faciendam  apparasset,  cum  uxore  veheretur 
in  rheda,  penulatus.  vulgi  magno  impedimento,  ac  muliebri  et  delicato  ancillarum  pu- 
erorunu|iie  comitatu.  Fit  obviam  Clodio  ante  fundum  ejus,  hora  fere  undecima,  aut  non 
multo  secus.  Statitn  complures  cum  telis  in  hunc  faciunt  de  loco  superiore  impetum  .• 
adversi  rhedarium  occidunt ;  cum  autem  hie  de  rheda,  rejecta  penula  desiluisset,  seque 
acri  animo  defenderet,  illi  qui  erant  cum  Clodio,  gladiis  eductis,  partim  recurrere  ad 
rhedam,  ut  a  tergo  Milonem  adorirentur  ;  partim,  quod  hunc  jam  intcrfectum  puta- 
rent,  caedere  incipiunt  ejus  servos  qui  post  erant ;  ex  quibus  qui  animo  fideli  in  donu- 
num  et  praesenM  fuerunt,  partim  occisi  sunt  ;  partim  cum  ad  rhedam  pugnare  viderent 
el  domino  succurrere  prohiberentur,  Milonemque  occisum  etiam  ex  ipso  Clodio  audi 
rent,  et  ita  esse  putarent,  fecerur.t  id  servi  Milonis,(dicam  enim  non  denvandi  criminis 
causS,  sed  ut  factum  est)  neque  imperante,  neque  sciente,  neque  praesente  dr\mino 
quod  suos  quisque  servos  in  tali  re  facere  voluisset.' 


(  352  a  ) 


Q,UESTIOXS. 


Elf  the  four  preceding  lectures,  what 

as  been  considered ;  and  of  what  is  our 

author  now  to  treat  ?  For  what  was  the 

previous  view  given,  necessary ;  and  in 

Eroceeding,  what  shall  be  pointed  out? 
In  whatever  subject  any  one  intends 
to  discourse,  what  order  will  he  pursue? 
This  being  the  natural  train  of  speak- 
ing, what  six  parts  compose  a  regular 
formal  oration?  What  is  here  not 
meant ;  and  why  not  ?  There  may  be 
many  excellent  discourses  before  the 
public,  without  what  ?  Why  then  is  it 
necessary  that  each  of  them  should  be 
treated  of  distinctly  ?  With  what  does 
our  author  begin  ;  and  of  this,  what  is 
observed  ?  How  is  this  remark  illustra- 
ted? Of  this,  what  is  remarked?  To 
conciliate  the  good  will  of  the  hearers, 
and  to  render  them  benevolent,  whence 
may  topics  in  causes  at  the  bar  be 
drawn  ?  What  is  the  second  end  of  an 
introduction  ;  and  how  may  this  be  ef- 
fected? What  is  the  third  end,  and  for 
this  purpose,  with  what  must  we  begin? 
When  may  formal  introductions  be 
omitted;  and  what  remark  follows? 
Of  Demosthenes'  and  Cicero's  introduc- 
tions, what  is  observed?  What  two 
Kinds  of  introductions  did  the  ancient 
critics  distinguish  ;  and  what  is  said  of 
them  ?  Of  this  latter  sort  of  introduc- 
tion, in  what  oration  have  we  an  admi- 
rable instance  ?  Who  was  Rullus,  and 
what  did  he  propose?  Of  such  'aws, 
what  is  observed  ?  What  is  here  said  of 
Cicero;  and  in  what  manner  does  he 
introduce  this  difficult  subject?  What 
evidence  does  he  give  that  he  is  not  an 
enemy  to  Agrarian  laws  ?  In  all  this, 
there  is  what ;  and  what  was  the  con- 
sequence ?  Having  given  this  general 
view  of  the  nature  and  end  of  an  in- 
troduction, to  what  does  our  author 
proceed  ?  Why  are  these  the  more  ne- 
cessary ?  What  is  always  of  import- 
ance ;  and  what  remark  is  added  ? 
What  is  the  first  rule  given  ?  What 
must  always  suggest  it;  and  what  says 
Cicero?  In  introductions,  what  is  too 
common  a  fault  ?  "What  introductions 
are  of  this  kind?  What  is  said  of  them; 
and  what  follows  ?  What  is  related  of 
Cicero's  introductions;  and  of  his  man- 
ner of  preparing  them  ?  Of  this  strange 
method,  what  was  once  a  consequence  ? 
J  a  order  to  render  an  introduction  inte- 
resting, what  is  a  good  rule  ?  What 
will  be  the  consequence  of  taking  a  con- 1 


trary  course?  What  remark  is  made 
by  Cicero?  In  the  second  place .  in  an 
introduction,  what  should  be  carefully 
studied  ?  What  is  then  the  situation  of 
the  hearers  ?  Why,  at  the  same  time, 
must  too  much  art  be  avoided  ?  What 
is  the  proper  character  of  an  introduc- 
tion ?  In  the  third  place,  why  is  mo- 
desty requisite  in  an  introduction?  How 
should  his  modesty  discover  itself;  and 
why  ?  What  should  the  modesty  of  an 
introduction  never  betray  ;  and  what  is 
of  great  use  to  an  orator  ?  What  does 
the  modesty  of  an  introduction  require  ? 
What  says  Horace  ?  What  is  the  gene- 
ral rule?  What  exception  is  there  to 
this  rule  ?  What  might  too  modest  a 
beginning,  then,  be  like  ?  By  the  bold- 
ness and  strength  of  his  exordium, 
what  must  he  endeavour  to  do  ?  Where, 
also,  has  a  magnificent  introduction, 
sometimes  a  good  effect  ?  What  exam- 
ple is  given  from  a  sermon  of  Bishop 
Atterbury's?  How  do  the  celebrated 
French  writers  often  begin  their  dis- 
courses ?  Of  these,  what  is  the  effect , 
but  against  what,  must  every  speaker 
be  much  on  his  guard  ?  In  the  fourtn 
place,  in  what  manner  should  an  in- 
troduction usually  be  carried  on  ?  Why 
is  this  direction  given  ?  What  are  the 
exceptions  to  this  rule?  What  will 
either  of  these  justify  ?  What  instances 
are  given?  Why  should  such  introduc- 
tions be  hazarded  by  very  few  ?  Of  tfte 
introduction,  what  is  further  noticed? 
In  the  beginning,  what  should  the  ora- 
to"  do?  How  is  this  remark  illustrated? 
How  is  much  of  the  orator's  art  shown? 
What,  in  the  fifth  place,  is  a  rule  in 
introductions?  How  is  this  rule  fully  il- 
lustrated? In  the  last  place,  to  what 
ought  the  introduction  be  proportioned; 
and  of  this  direction,  what  illustration 
is  given  ?  What  does  common  sense  di- 
rect? To  what  are  these  rules  adapted  ? 
In  pleadings  at  the  bar,  or  speeches  in 
public  assemblies,  about  what  must 
particular  care  be  taken?  To  this  in- 
convenience, what  introductions  are  ex- 
posed ;  what  never  fails  to  give  an  ad- 
versary considerable  triumph  ?  In  the 
case  of  replies,  what  observation  does 
Quintilian  make?  What  reason  does 
he  assign  for  this  ? 

Of  introductions  to  sermons,  what  is 
observed?  Of  the  French  preachers, 
what  was  before  remarked  ?  When  are 
introductions  always  tediou?  ?    Whaf 


352 


QUESTIONS. 


[LECT.  XXX! 


should  be  studied  in  this  part  of  com- 
position as  much  as  possible ;  and  what 
may  often  be  proper  ?  Of  explanatory 
.ntroductions  from  the  context,  what  is 
remarked?  When  has  a  historical  in- 
iroductianahappy  effect?  What  comes 
next  in  order  after  the  introduction? 
What  only  is  to  be  said  concerning  it  ? 
To  this,  what  Generally  succeeds  ? 
What  does  our  author  here  not  mean? 
How  is  this  remark  illustrated  ?  What 
is  essentia]  to  every  good  discourse? 
How  may  this  be  accomplished  ?  What 
is  division  in  discourse?  In  what  dis- 
course does  this  sort  of  division  most 
commonly  take  place  ;  and  what  ques- 
tion has  been  moved?  What  is  the 
opinion  of  the  Archbishop  of  Camhray? 
Of  it,  what  does  he  observe  ?  What 
effect,  in  his  opinion,  has  it?  Notwith- 
standing his  authority  and  arguments, 
what  does  our  author  think  ;  and  why? 
What  reason  has  the  practice  itself,  on 
its  side  ?  W'hat  advantages  result  to 
the  hearers,  from  the  division  of  a  ser- 
mon into  heads  ?  On  this  subject,  what 
says  Quintilian  ?  With  regard  to  break- 
ing the  unity  of  a  discourse,  what  docs 
>ur  author  observe?  On  the  contrary, 
if  the  heads  be  well  chosen,  what  is 
their  effect  ?  In  any  discourse,  where 
division  is  proper,  what  is  the  first  rule 
to  be  observed  ?  How  is  this  rule  illus- 
trated ?  Secondly,  in  division,  what  or- 
der must  we  follow  ?  Into  what  parts 
must  we  divide  the  subject?  Thirdly, 
what  should  the  several  members  of  a 
division  do;  and  why?  In  the  fourth 
place,  of  the  terms  in  which  our  parti- 
tions are  expressed,  what  is  observed  ; 
and  what  remarks  follow  ?  What  is  it 
which  chiefly  makes  the  divisions  of  a 
discourse  appear  neat  and  elegant? 
What  is  the  effect  of  this  ?  In  the  fifth 
place,  what  must  be  avoided  ?  What 
has  always  a  bad  effect  in  speaking  ? 
Where  may  it  be  proper;  but  what 
effect  has  it  on  an  oration?  To  what 
member  should  the  heads  of  a  sermon 
be  limited?  Why  should  the  division 
of  a  sermon,  or  of  a  pleading  at  the 
bar,  be  studied  with  much  accuracy 
and  care  ?  What  effect  will  this  have  ? 
What  do  the  French  writers  of  ser- 
mons study  much  more  than  we  do  ? 
Among  the  French,  however,  what 
sometimes  appears  in  their  divisions? 
What  examples,  from  two  eminent 
French  writers,  are  here  introduced  ? 
What  was  the  next  constituent  part  of 
a  discourse  mentioned?  Why  are  these 


two  put  together  ?  In  pleadings  at  the 
bar,  of  narration,  what  is  observed? 
What  peculiar  difficulty  is  there  in 
narrations  at  the  bar  ?  What,  here,  de- 
mand no  small  exertion  of  skill  and 
dexterity?  What  must  he  always  re- 
member? What  does  Quintilian  very 
properly  direct?  What  qualities  do 
critics  chiefly  require  in  narration ;  and 
of  each  of  these,  what  is  observed  ?  01 
distinctness,  what  is  remarked?  How 
is  this  illustrated?  In  order  to  produce 
distinctness,  what  does  narration  re- 
quire ?  What  is  material,  n  order  to  be 
probable  in  narration?  Iti  order  to  be 
as  concise  as  the  subject  will  admit, 
what  is  necessary  ?  Who  is  remarkable 
for  his  talent  of  narration  ?  What  in- 
stance is  given?  What  does  he  here 
wish  to  show  ?  How  are  all  the  cir- 
cumstances, for  rendering  this  probable, 
painted  ?  What  does  he  give,  in  rela- 
ting the  manner  in  which  Milo  set  out 
from  Rome  ?  Repeat  the  passage.  Ir 
sermons,  what  comes  in  the  place  of 
narration  at  the  bar ;  and  in  what 
manner  must  it  be  taken  up  ?  What  is, 
properly,  the  didactic  part  of  preach- 
ing ;  and  on  the  right  execution  of  it, 
what  depends?  WTiat  is  the  great  art 
of  succeeding  with  it?  How  is  this  fully 
illustrated?  Of  what  should  the  preach- 
er be  persuaded  ? 


ANALYSIS. 

1.  The  introduction. 

a.  The  ends  of  an  introduction. 
B.  The  introductions  of  the  ancients 
Rules  for  the  composition  of  an  in- 
troduction. 

a.  It  should  be  easy  and  natural. 

b.  Correctness  of  expression  should 

be  observed. 

c.  Modesty  should  be  one  of  its 

principal  characteristics. 

d.  It  should  be  calmly  conducted. 

e.  It  should  not  anticipate  any  pan 

of  the  subject. 

2.  The  enunciation  of  the  subject. 

3.  The  divisions  of  the  discourse. 

A.  The  parts  should  be  distinct  from 

each  other. 

B.  The  natural  order  should  be  fol 

lowed. 
c.  The  members  should  exhaust  the 
subject. 

D.  The  division  should  be  expressed 

with  precision. 

E.  The  heads  should  not  be  unneces 

sarily  extended. 
4   Narration  or  explication. 


(  353  ) 

LECTURE  XXXII. 


CONDUCT  OF  A  DISCOURSE....  THE  ARGUMENTATIVE 

PART....THE  PATHETIC  PART....THE 

PERORATION. 

In  treating  of  the  constituent  parts  of  a  regular  discourse  or  ora- 
tion, I  have  already  considered  the  introduction,  the  division,  and 
the  narration  or  explication.  I  proceed  next  to  treat  of  the  argu- 
mentative or  reasoning  part  of  a  discourse.  In  whatever  place,  or 
on  whatever  subject  one  speaks,  this,  beyond  doubt,  is  of  the  greatest 
consequence.  For  the  great  end  for  which  men  speak  on  any  se- 
rious occasion,  is  to  convince  their  hearers  of  something  being  either 
true,  or  right,  or  good ;  and,  by  means  of  this  conviction,  to  influ- 
ence their  practice.  Reason  and  argument  make  the  foundation,  as 
I  have  often  inculcated,  of  all  manly  and  persuasive  eloquence. 

Now,  with  respect  to  arguments,  three  things  are  requisite. 
First,  the  invention  of  them;  secondly,  the  proper  disposition  and 
arrangement  of  them ;  and  thirdly,  the  expressing  of  them  in  such 
a  style  and  manner,  as  to  give  them  their  full  force. 

The  first  of  these,  invention,  is,  without  doubt,  the  most  mate- 
rial, and  the  ground-work  of  the  rest.  But,  with  respect  to  this,  I 
am  afraid  it  is  beyond  the  power  of  art  to  give  any  real  assistance. 
Art  cannot  go  so  far  as  to  supply  a  speaker  with  arguments  on  every 
cause,  and  every  subject;  though  it  may  be  of  considerable  use  in 
assisting  him  to  arrange  and  express  those,  which  his  knowledge  of 
the  subject  has  discovered.  For  it  is  one  thing  to  discover  the  rea- 
sons that  are  most  proper  to  convince  men,  and  another  to  manage 
these  reasons  with  the  most  advantage.  The  latter  is  all  that  rhe- 
toric can  pretend  to. 

The  ancient  rhetoricians  did  indeed  attempt  to  go  much  farther 
than  this.  They  attempted  to  form  rhetoric  into  a  more  complete 
system ;  and  professed  not  only  to  assist  public  speakers  in  setting 
off  their  arguments  to  most  advantage;  but  to  supply  the  defect  of 
their  invention,  and  to  teach  them  where  to  find  arguments  on  eve- 
ry subject  and  cause.  Hence  their  doctrine  of  topics,  or  <  Loci 
Communes,'  and  'Sedes  Argumentorum/  which  makes  so  great  a 
figure  in  the  writings  of  Aristotle,  Cicero,  and  Quintilian.  These 
topics,  or  loci,  were  no  other  than  general  ideas  applicable  to  a  great 
man)  different  subjects,  which  the  orator  was  directed  to  consult,  in 
order  to  find  out  materials  for  his  speech.  They  had  their  intrinsic 
and  extrinsic  loci;  some  loci,  that  were  common  to  all  the  different 
kinds  of  public  speaking,  and  some  that  were  peculiar  to  each. 
The  common  or  general  loci,  were  such  as  genus  and  species,  cause 
and  effect,  antecedents  and  consequents,  likeness  and  contrariety. 
3E  45 


354  THE  ARGUMENTATIVE  PART  [lect.  xxxn. 

definition,  circumstances  of  time  and  place;  and  a  great  many  more 
of  the  same  kinds.  For  each  of  the  different  kinds  of  public  speak- 
ing, they  had  their  '  Loci  Personarum,'  and  'Loci  Rerum.'  As  in 
:lemonstrative  orations,  for  instance,  the  heads  from  which  any  one 
could  be  decried  or  praised;  his  birth,  his  country,  his  education 
his  kindred,  the  qualities  of  his  body,  the  qualities  of  his  mind,  the 
fortune  he  enjoyed,  the  stations  he  had  filled,  &c. ;  and  in  delibera- 
tive orations,  the  topics  that  might  be  used  in  recommending  any 
public  measure,  or  dissuading  from  it;  such  as,  honesty, justice, 
facility,  profit,  pleasure,  glory,  assistance  from  friends,  mortification 
to  enemies,  and  the  like. 

The  Grecian  sophists  were  the  first  inventors  of  this  artificial  sys- 
tem of  oratory;  and  they  showed  a  prodigious  subtilty  and  fertility 
in  the  contrivance  of  these  loci.  Succeeding  rhetoricians,  dazzled 
by  the  plan,  wrought  them  up  into  so  regular  a  system,  that  one 
would  think  they  meant  to  teach  how  a  person  might  mechanically 
become  an  orator,  without  any  genius  at  all.  They  gave  him  re- 
ceipts for  making  speeches  on  all  manner  of  subjects.  At  the  same 
time,  it  is  evident,  that  though  this  study  of  common  places  might 
produce  very  showy  academical  declamations,  it  could  never  pro- 
duce discourses  on  real  business.  The  loci  indeed  supplied  a  most 
exuberant  fecundity  of  matter.  One  who  had  no  other  aim,  but  to 
talk  copiously  and  plausibly,  by  consulting  them  on  every  subject, 
and  laying  hold  of  all  that  they  suggested,  might  discourse  without 
end ;  and  that,  too,  tnough  he  had  none  but  the  most  superficia 
knowledge  of  his  subject.  But  such  discourse  could  be  no  othei 
than  trivial.  What  is  truly  solid  and  persuasive,  must  be  drawn 
'ex  visceribus  causse,'  from  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  subject, 
and  profound  meditation  on  it.  They  who  would  direct  students 
of  oratory  to  any  other  sources  of  argumentation,  only  delude 
them;  and  by  attempting  to  render  rhetoric  too  perfect  an  art, 
they  render  it,  in  truth,  a  trifling  and  childish  study. 

On  this  doctrine,  therefore,  of  the  rhetorical  loci,  or  topics,  I 
think  it  superfluous  to  insist.  If  any  think  that  the  knowledge  of 
them  may  contribute  to  improve  their  invention,  and  extend  their 
views,  they  may  consult  Aristotle  and  Quintilian,  or  what  Cicero 
has  written  on  this  head,  in  his  Treatise  De  Inventione,  his  Topica, 
and  second  book  De  Oratore.  But  when  they  are  to  prepare  a 
discoun-e,  by  which  they  purpose  to  convince  a  judge,  or  to  pro- 
duce any  considerable  effect  upon  an  assembly,  I  would  advise  them 
to  lay  aside  their  common  places,  and  to  think  closely  of  their  sub- 
ject. Demosthenes,  I  dare  say,  consulted  none  of  the  loci,  when  he 
was  inciting  the  Athenians  to  take  arms  against  Philip;  and  where 
Cicero  has  had  recourse  to  them,  his  orations  are  so  much  the  worse 
on  that  account. 

I  proceed  to  what  is  of  more  real  use,  to  point  out  the  assistance 
that  can  be  given,  not  with  respect  to  the  invention,  but  with  re- 
spect to  the  disposition  and  conduct  of  arguments. 

Two  different  methods  may  be  used  by  orators,  in  the  conduct 


le^t.  xxxii.]  OF  A  DISCOURSE.  355 

of  their  reasoning ;  the  terms  of  art  for  which  are,  the  analytic,  and 
the  synthetic  method.  The  analytic  is,  when  the  orator  conceals  his 
intention  concerning  the  point  he  is  to  prove,  till  he  has  gradually 
brought  his  hearers  to  the  designed  conclusion.  They  are  led  on 
step  by  step,  from  one  known  truth  to  another,  till  the  conclusion 
be  stolen  upon  them,  as  the  natural  consequence  of  a  chain  of  pro- 
positions. As,  for  instance,  when  one  intending  to  prove  the  being 
of  a  God,  sets  out  with  observing,  that  every  thing  which  we  see 
in  the  world  has  had  a  beginning;  that  whatever  has  had  a  begin- 
ning, must  have  a  prior  cause ;  that  in  human  productions,  art  shown 
in  the  effect,  necessarily  infers  design  in  the  cause :  and  proceeds 
leading  you  on  from  one  cause  to  another,  till  you  arrive  at  one  su- 
preme first  cause,  from  whom  is  derived  all  the  order  and  design 
visible  in  his  works.  This  is  much  the  same  with  the  Socratic 
method,  by  which  that  philosopher  silenced  the  sophists  of  his  age. 
It  is  a  very  artful  method  of  reasoning;  may  be  carried  on  with 
much  beauty,  and  is  proper  to  be  used  when  the  hearers  are  much 
prejudiced  against  any  truth,  and  by  imperceptible  steps  must  be 
led  to  conviction. 

But  there  are  few  subjects  that  will  admit  this  method,  and  not 
many  occasions  on  which  it  is  proper  to  be  employed.  The  mode 
of  reasoning  more  generally  used,  and  most  suited  to  the  train  of 
popular  speaking,  is  what  is  called  the  synthetic;  when  the  point 
to  be  proved  is  fairly  laid  down,  and  one  argument  upon  another  is 
made  to  bear  upon  it,  till  the  hearers  be  fully  convinced. 

Now,  in  all  arguing,  one  of  the  first  things  to  be  attended  to  is, 
among  the  various  arguments  which  may  occur  upon  a  cause,  to 
make  a  proper  selection  of  such  as  appear  to  one's  self  the  most 
solid;  and  to  employ  these  as  the  chief  means  of  persuasion.  Eve- 
ry speaker  should  place  himself  in  the  situation  of  a  hearer,  and 
think  how  he  would  be  affected  by  those  reasons  which  he  purpo- 
ses to  employ  for  persuading  others.  For  he  must  not  expect  to 
impose  on  mankind  by  mere  arts  of  speech.  They  are  not  so  easi- 
ly imposed  on,  as  public  speakers  are  sometimes  apt  to  think. 
Shrewdness  and  sagacity  are  found  among  all  ranks;  and  the  speak- 
er may  be  praised  for  his  fine  Tdiscourse,  while  yet  the  hearers  are 
/iot  persuaded  of  the  truth  of  any  one  thing  he  has  uttered. 

Supposing  the  arguments  properly  chosen,  it  is  evident  that  their 
effect  will,  in  some  measure,  depend  on  the  right  arrangement  of 
them ;  so  as  they  shall  not  justle  and  embarrass  one  another,  but 
give  mutual  aid ;  and  bear  with  the  fairest  and  fullest  direction  on  the 
point  in  view.    Concerning  this,  the  following  rules  may  be  taken 

In  the  first  place,  avoid  blending  arguments  confusedly  together 
that  are  of  a  separate  nature.  All  arguments  whatever  are  directed 
to  prove  on©  or  other  of  these  three  things ;  that  something  is  true ; 
that  it  is  morally  right  or  fit;  or  that  it  is  profitable  and  good.  These 
make  the  three  great  subjects  of  discussion  among  mankind  ;  truth, 
duty,  and  interest.  But  the  arguments  directed  towards  any  one  of 
tiiem  are  generically  distinct;  and  he  who  blends  them  all  under  one 


35k  THE  ARGUMENTATIVE  PART  [lect.  xxxn 

topic,  which  he  calls  his  argument,  as  in  sermons,  especially,  is  too 
often  done,  will  render  his  reasoning  indistinct  and  inelegant.  Sup- 
pose, for  instance,  that  I  am  recommending  to  an  audience  benevo- 
lence or  the  love  of  our  neighbour,  and  that  I  take  my  first  argu- 
ment, from  the  inward  satisfaction  which  a  benevolent  temper  af- 
fords; my  second,  from  the  obligation  which  the  example  of  Christ 
lays  upon  us  to  this  duty  ;  and  my  third,  from  its  tendency  to  pro- 
cure us  the  good  will  of  all  around  us  :  my  arguments  are  good,  but 
I  have  arranged  them  wrong;  for,  my  first  and  third  arguments  are 
taken  from  considerations  of  interest,  internal  peace,  and  external 
advantages;  and  between  these,  I  have  introduced  one  which  rests 
wholly  upon  duty.  I  should  have  kept  those  classes  of  arguments 
which  are  addressed  to  different  principles  in  human  nature,  sepa- 
rate and  distinct. 

In  the  second  place,  with  regard  to  the  different  degrees  oi 
strength  in  arguments,  the  general  rule  is  to  advance  in  the  way  ol 
climax,  'ut  augeatur  semper,  et  increscat  oratio.'  This  especially 
is  to  be  the  course,  when  the  speaker  has  a  clear  cause,  and  is  con- 
fident that  he  can  prove  it  fully.  He  may  then  adventure  to  begin 
with  feeble  arguments;  rising  gradually,  and  not  putting  forth  his 
whole  strength  till  the  last,  when  he  can  trust  to  his  making  a  suc- 
cessful impression  on  the  minds  of  hearers,  prepared  by  what  has 
gone  before.  But  this  rule  is  not  to  be  always  followed.  For,  if  he 
distrusts  his  cause,  and  has  but  one  material  argument  on  which  to 
lay  the  stress,  putting  less  confidence  in  the  rest,  in  this  case,  it  is 
often  proper  for  him  to  place  this  material  argument  in  the  front;  to 
pre-occupy  the  hearers  early,  and  make  the  strongest  effort  at  first ; 
that,  having  removed  prejudices,  and  disposed  them  to  be  favoura- 
ble, the  rest  of  his  reasoning  may  be  listened  to  with  more  candour. 
When  it  happens,  that  amidst  a  variety  of  arguments,  there  are  one 
or  two  which  we  are  sensible  are  more  inconclusive  than  the  rest, 
and  yet  proper  to  be  used,  Cicero  advises  to  place  these  in  the  mid- 
dle, as  a  station  less  conspicuous  than  either  the  beginning  or  the 
end  of  the  train  of  reasoning. 

In  the  third  place,  when  our  arguments  are  strong  and  satisfacto 
ry,the  more  they  are  distinguished  and  treated  apartfrom  each  other, 
the  better.  Each  can  then  bear  to  be  brought  out  by  itself,  placed 
in  its  full  light,  amplified  and  rested  upon.  But  when  our  arguments 
are  doubtful,  and  only  of  the  presumptive  kind,  it  is  safer  to  throw 
them  together  in  a  crowd,  and  to  run  them  into  one  another:  <ut 
quse  sunt  natura  imbecilla,'  as  Quintilian  speaks, '  mutuo  auxilio  sus- 
tineantur;'  that  though  infirm  of  themselves,  they  may  serve  mutu- 
ally to  prop  each  other.  He  gives  a  good  example,  in  the  case  of  one 
who  had  been  accused  of  murdering  a  relation,  to  whom  he  was  heir. 
Direct  proof  was  wanting;  but,  'you  expected  a  successicn,  and  a 
great  succession;  you  were  in  distrest  circumstances;  you  were 
pushed  to  the  utmost  by  your  creditors;  you  had  offendsd  your  re- 
lation, who  had  made  you  his  heir;  you  knew  that  he  was  just  then 
intending  to  alter  his  will;  no  time  was  to  be  lost.     Each  of  these 


lect.  xxxii.]  OF  A  DISCOURSE.  357 

particulars  by  itself,'  says  the  author,  '  is  inconclusive :  but  wnen 
they  are  assembled  in  one  groupe,  they  have  effect.' 

Of  the  distinct  amplification  of  one  persuasive  argument,  we 
have  a  most  beautiful  example,  in  Cicero's  oration  for  Milo.  The 
argument  is  taken  from  a  circumstance  of  time.  Milo  was  candi- 
date for  the  consulship;  and  Clodius  was  killed  a  few  days  before 
the  election.  He  asks,  if  any  one  could  believe  that  Milo  would  be 
mad  enough  at  such  a  critical  time,  by  a  most  odious  assassination,  to 
alienate  from  himself  the  favour  of  people,  whose  suffrages  he  was 
so  anxiously  courting?  This  argument,  the  moment  it  is  suggest- 
ed, appears  to  have  considerable  weight.  But  it  was  not  enough, 
simply  to  suggest  it,  it  could  bear  to  be  dwelt  upon,  and  brought 
out  into  full  light.  The  orator,  therefore,  draws  a  just  and  striking 
picture  of  that  solicitous  attention  with  which  candidates,  at  such  a 
season,  always  found  it  necessary  to  cultivate  the  good  opinion  of 
the  people.  '  Quo  tempore,'  says  he,  '  (Scio  enim  quam  timida  sit 
ambitio,  quantaque  et  quam  solicita,  cupiditas  consulates)  omnia, 
non  modo  quas  reprehendi  palam,  sed  etiam  quae  obscure  cogitari 
possunt,  timemus.  Rumorem,  fabulam  fictam  es  falsam,  perhorres- 
cimus;  ora  omnium  atque  oculos  intuemur.  Nihil  enim  est  tarn 
tenerum,  tarn  aut  fragile  aut  flexible,  quam  voluntas  erga  nos  sen- 
susque  civium,  qui  non  modo  improbitati  irascuntur  candidatorum, 
sed  etiam  in  recte  factis  saepe  fastidiunt.'  From  all  which  he  most 
justly  concludes,  'Hunc  diem  igitur  Campi,  speratum  atque  exop- 
tatum,  sibi  proponens  Milo,  cruentis  manibus,  scelus  atque  facinus 
prae  se  ferens,  ad  ilia  centuriarum  auspicia  veniebat?  Quam  hoc 
in  illo  minimum  credibile!'*  But  though  such  amplifications  as 
this  be  extremely  beautiful,  I  must  add  a  caution, 

In  the  fourth  place,against  extending  arguments  too  far,  and  mul- 
tiplying them  too  much.  This  serves  rather  to  render  a  cause  sus- 
pected, than  to  give  it  weight.  An  unnecessary  multiplicity  of  ar- 
guments both  burdens  the  memory,  and  detracts  from  the  weight 
of  that  conviction  which  a  few  well  chosen  arguments  carry.  It  is 
to  be  observed  too,  that  in  the  amplification  of  arguments,  a  diffuse 
and  spreading  method,  beyond  the  bounds  of  reasonable  illustra- 
tion, is  always  enfeebling.  It  takes  off  greatly  from  that  'vis  et 
acumen,'  which  should  be  the  distinguishing  character  of  the  argu- 
mentative part  of  a  discourse.  When  a  speaker  dwells  long  on  a 
favourite  argument,  and  seeks  to  turn  it  into  every  possible  light, 

*  'Well  do  I  know  to  what  length  the  timidity  goes  of  such  as  are  candidates  for 
public  offices,  and  how  many  anxious  cares  and  attentions,  a  canvass  for  the  consul 
ship  necessarily  carries  along  with  it.  On  such  an  occasion,  we  are  afraid  not  only  of 
wnat  we  may  openly  be  reproached  with,  but  of  what  others  may  think  of  us  in  secret. 
The  slightest  rumour,  the  most  improbable  tale  that  can  be  devised  to  our  prejudice, 
alarms  and  disconcerts  us.  We  study  the  countenance,  and  the  looks,  of  all  around 
us :  for  nothing  is  so  delicate,  so  frail,  uncertain,  as  the  public  favour.  Oui  fel- 
low-citizens not  only  are  justly  offended  with  the  vices  of  candidates,  but  even  on  oc 
casions  of  meritorious  actions,  are  apt  to  conceive  capricious  disgusts.  Is  there  then 
the  least  credibility,  that  Milo,  after  having  so  long  fixed  his  attention  on  the  impor- 
tant and  wished-for  day  of  election,  would  dare  to  have  any  thoughts  of  presenting 
himself  before  the  august  assembly  of  the  people,  as  a  muruferer  and  assassin,  with  hi* 
hands  imbrued  in  blood  ?' 


368  .THE  PATHETIC  PART  [lect  xx,  i 

t  almost  always  happens,  that,  fatigueu  with  the  effort,  he  loses 
the  spirit  with  which  he  se'  out.  and  concludes  with  feebleness 
what  he  began  with  force.  There  is  a  proper  temperance  in  rea- 
soning, as  there  is  in  other  parts  of  a  discourse. 

After  due  attention  given  to  the  proper  arrangement  of  argi> 
ments,  what  is  next  requisite  for  their  success  is,  to  express  them 
ill  such  a  style,  and  to  deliver  them  in  such  a  manner,  as  shall  give 
them  full  force.  On  these  heads  I  must  refer  the  reader  to  the  di- 
rections I  have  given  in  treating  of  style,  in  former  lectures:  and 
to  the  directions  I  am  afterwards  to  give  concerning  pronunciation 
and  delivery. 

I  proceed,  therefore,  next,  to  another  essential  part  of  discourse, 
which  I  mentioned  as  the  fifth  in  order,  that  is,  the  pathetic;  in 
which,  if  any  where,  eloquence  reigns,  and  exerts  its  power.  I  shall 
not,  in  beginning  this  head,  take  up  time  in  combating  the  scruples 
of  those  who  have  moved  a  question,  whether  it  be  consistent  with 
fairness  and  candour  in  a  public  speaker,  to  address  the  passions  of 
his  audience?  This  is  a  question  about  words  alone,  and  which 
common  sense  easily  determines.  In  inquiries  after  mere  truth,  in 
matters  of  simple  information  and  instruction,  there  is  no  question 
that  the  passions  have  no  concern,  and  that  all  attempts  to  move 
them  are  absurd.  Wherever  conviction  is  the  object,  it  is  the  un- 
derstanding alone  that  is  to  be  applied  to.  It  is  by  argument  and 
reasoning,  that  one  man  attempts  to  satisfy  another  of  what  is  true, 
or  right,  or  just;  but  if  persuasion  be  the  object,  the  case  is  chang- 
ed. In  all  that  relates  to  practice,  there  is  no  man  who  seriously 
means  to  persuade  another,  but  addresses  himself  to  his  passions 
more  or  less;  for  this  plain  reason,  that  passions  are  the  great  springs 
of  human  action.  The  most  virtuous  man,  in  treating  of  the  most 
virtuous  subject,  seeks  to  touch  the  heart  of  him  to  whom  he  speaks; 
and  makes  no  scruple  to  raise  his  indignation  at  injustice,  or  his 
pity  to  the  distressed,  though  pity  and  indignation  be  passions. 

In  treating  of  this  part  of  eloquence,  the  ancients  made  the  same 
sort  of  attempt  as  they  employed  with  respect  to  the  argumentative 
part,  in  order  to  bring  rhetoric  into  a  more  perfect  system.  They 
inquired  metaphysically  into  the  nature  of  every  passion ;  they  gave 
a  definition,  and  a  description  of  it;  they  treated  of  its  causes,  its 
effects,  and  its  concomitants;  and  thence  deduced  rules  for  work- 
ing upon  it.  Aristotle  in  particular  has,  in  his  treatise  upon  rhe- 
toric, discussed  the  nature  of  the  passions  with  much  profoundness 
and  subtilty ;  and  what  he  has  written  on  that  head,  may  be  read 
with  no  small  profit,  as  a  valuable  piece  of  moral  philosophy;  but 
whether  it  will  have  any  effect  in  rendering  an  orator  more  pathetic, 
is  to  me  doubtful.  It  is  not,  I  am  afraid,  any  philosophical  knowledge 
of  the  passions,  that  can  confer  this  talent.  We  must  be  indebted  for 
*tto  nature,  to  a  certain  strong  and  happy  sensibility  of  mind;  and 
one  may  be  a  most  thorough  adept  in  all  the  speculative  knowledge 
that  can  be  acquired  concerning  the  passions,  and  I'emain,  at  the 
same  time,  a  cold  and  dry  speaker.     The  use  of  rules  and  instruc- 


lect  mp.]  OF  A  DISCOURSE.  359 

tions  on  this,  or  any  other  part  of  oratory,  is  not  to  supply  the  want 
of  genius,  but  to  direct  it  where  it  is  found,  into  its  proper  channel ; 
to  assist  it  in  exerting  itself  with  most  advantage,  and  to  prevent 
the  errors  and  extravagances  into  which  it  is  sometimes  apt  to  run. 
On  the  head  of  the  pathetic,  the  following  directions  appear  to  me 
to  be  useful. 

The  first  is,  to  consider  carefully,  whether  the  subject  admit  the 
pathetic,  and  render  it  proper:  and  if  it  does,  what  part  of  the  dis- 
course is  the  most  proper  for  attempting  it  To  determine  these 
points  belongs  to  good  sense;  for  it  is  evident,  that  there  are  many 
subjects  which  admit  not  the  pathetic  at  all,  and  that  even  in  those 
that  are  susceptible  of  it,  an  attempt  to  excite  the  passions  in  the 
wrong  place,  may  expose  an  orator  to  ridicule.  All  that  can  be 
said  in  general  is,  that  if  we  expect  any  emotion  which  we  raise  to 
have  a  lasting  effect,  we  must  be  careful  to  bring  over  to  our  side, 
in  the  first  place,  the  understanding  and  judgment.  The  hearers 
must  be  convinced  that  there  are  good  and  sufficient  grounds  for  their 
entering  with  warmth  into  the  cause.  They  must  be  able  to  justify 
to  themselves  the  passion  which  they  feel ;  and  remain  satisfied  that 
they  are  not  carried  away  by  mere  delusion.  Unless  their  minds  be 
brought  into  this  state,  although  they  may  have  been  heated  by  the 
orator's  discourse,  yet,  as  soon  as  he  ceases  to  speak,  they  will  re- 
sume their  ordinary  tone  of  thought;  and  the  emotion  which  he  has 
raised  will  die  entirely  away.  Hence  mpst  writers  assign  the  pa- 
ihetie  to  the  peroration,  or  conclusion,  as  its  natural  place;  and,  no 
doubt,  all  other  things  being  equal,  this  is  the  impression  that  one 
would  choose  to  make  last,  leaving  the  minds  of  the  hearers  warm- 
ed with  the  subject,  after  argument  and  reasoning  had  produced 
their  full  effect :  but  wherever  it  is  introduced,  I  must  advise, 

In  the  second  place,  never  to  set  aparta  head  of  a  discourse  in  form, 
for  raising  any  passion;  never  give  warning  that  you  are  about  to 
be  pathetic ;  and  call  upon  your  hearers,  as  is  sometimes  done,  to 
follow  you  in  the  attempt.  This  almost  never  fails  to  prove  a  re 
frigerant  to  passion.  It  puts  the  hearers  immediately  on  their  guard 
and  disposes  them  for  criticising,  much  more  than  for  being  moved 
The  indirect  method  of  making  an  impression  is  likely  to  be  more 
successful:  when  you  seize  the  critical  moment  that  is  favourable 
to  emotion,  in  whatever  part  of  the  discourse  it  occurs;  and  then, 
after  due  preparation,  throw  in  such  circumstances,  and  present 
such  glowing  images,  as  may  kindle  their  passions  before  they  are 
aware.  This  can  often  be  done  more  happily,  in  a  few  sentences 
inspired  by  natural  warmth,  than  in  a  long  and  studied  address. 

In  the  third  place,  it  is  necessary  to  observe,  that  there  is  a  great 
difference  between  showing  the  hearers  that  they  ought  to  be  mov- 
ed, and  actually  moving  them.  This  distinction  is  not  sufficiently 
attended  to,  especially  by  preachers,  who,  if  they  have  a  head  in 
their  sermon  to  show  how  much  we  are  bound  to  be  grateful  to  God, 
or  to  be  compassionate  to  the  distrest,  are  apt  to  imagine  this  to  be 
x  pathetic  part.     Now  all  the  arguments  you  produce  to  show  me, 


360  THE  PATHETIC  PART  [lect.  xxxn 

why  it  is  my  duty,  why  it  is  reasonable  and  fit,  that  I  should  be 
moved  in  a  certain  way,  go  no  farther  than  to  dispose  or  prepare 
me  for  entering  into  such  an  emotion ;  but  they  do  not  actually  ex- 
cite it.  To  every  emotion  or  passion,  nature  has  adapted  a  set  of 
corresponding  objects;  and,  without  setting  these  before  the  mind, 
it  is  not  in  the  power  of  any  orator  to  raise  that  emotion.  I  am 
warmed  with  gratitude,  I  am  touched  with  compassion,  not  when 
a  speaker  shows  me  that  these  are  noble  dispositions,  and  that  it  is 
my  duty  to  feel  them;  or  when  he  exclaims  against  me  for  my  in- 
difference and  coldness.  All  this  time,  he  is  speaking  only  to  my 
reason  or  conscience.  He  must  describe  the  kindness  and  tender- 
ness of  my  friend;  he  must  set  before  me  the  distress  suffered  by 
the  person  for  whom  he  would  interest  me;  then,  and  not  till  then, 
my  heart  begins  to  be  touched,  my  gratitude  or  my  compassion  be- 
gins to  flow.  The  foundation,  therefore,  of  all  successful  execution 
in  the  way  of  pathetic  oratory  is,  to  paint  the  object  of  that  passion 
which  we  wish  to  raise,  in  the  most  natural  and  striking  manner; 
to  describe  it  with  such  circumstances  as  are  likely  to  awaken  it  in 
the  minds  of  others.  Every  passion  is  most  strongly  excited  by 
sensation;  as  anger,  by  the  feeling  of  an  injury,  or  the  presence  of 
the  injurer.  Next  to  the  influence  of  sense,  is  that  of  memory ;  and 
next  to  memory,  is  the  influence  of  the  imagination.  Of  this  pow- 
er, therefore,  the  orator  must  avail  himself,  so  as  to  strike  the  ima- 
gination of  the  hearers  *vith  circumstances  which,  in  lustre  and 
steadiness,  resemble  those  of  sensation  and  remembrance.  In  or- 
der to  accomplish  this, 

In  the  fourth  place,  the  only  effectual  method  is,  to  be  moved 
yourselves.  There  are  a  thousand  interesting  circumstances  sug- 
gested by  real  passion,  which  no  art  can  imitate,  and  no  refinement 
can  supply.     There  is  obviously  a  contagion  among  the  passions, 

Ut  ridentibus,  arrident,  sic  flentibus  adflent, 
Humani  vultus. 

The  internal  emotion  of  the  speaker  adds  a  pathos  to  his  words,  his 
looks,  his  gestures,  and  his  whole  manner,  which  exerts  a  power 
almost  irresistible  over  those  who  hear  him.*  But  on  this  point, 
though  the  most  material  of  all,  I  shall  not  now  insist,  as  I  have 
«ften  had  occasion  before  to  show,  that  all  attempts  towards  becom- 
ing pathetic,  when  we  are  not  moved  ourselves,  expose  us  to  cer- 
tain ridicule. 

Quintilian,  who  discourses  upon  this  subject  with  much  good 
sense,  takes  pains  to  inform  us  of  the  method  which  he  used,  when 
he  was  a  public  speaker,  for  entering  into  those  passions  which  he 
wanted  to  excite  in  others ;  setting  before  his  own  imagination  what 
he  calls,  'Phantasiae'  or  'Visiones,'  strong  pictures  of  the  distress 

*  'Quid  enim  aliud  est  causae  ut  lugentes,  in  recenti  dolore.  disertissime  quffidam  ex- 
clamave  videantur;  et  ira  nommquam  in  indoctis  quoque  eloquentiam  faciat;  quam 
quod  illts  inest  vis  mentis,  et  Veritas  ipsa  Morum  ?  quare  in  iis  qua  verisimilia  esse  vo- 
iumus,  simus  ipsi  similes  eorum  qui  vere  patiunter  affectibus:  et  a  tali  animo  proficis- 
catur  oratio  qualem  fatere  judicem  volet.     Afficiamur    antequam  afficere  conemur.' 

Quint.  Lib.  & 


lect.xxxii.J  OF  A  DISCOURSE.  3<?l 

or  indignities  which  they  had  suffered,  whose  cause  he  had  to  plead, 
and  for  whom  he  was  to  interest  his  hearers ;  dwelling  upon  these, 
and  putting  himself  in  their  situation,  till  he  was  affected  by  a  pas- 
sion similar  to  that  which  the  persons  themselves  had  felt.*  To 
this  method  he  attributes  all  the  success  he  ever  had  in  public 
speaking;  and  there  can  be  no  doubt,  that  whatever  tends  to  in- 
crease an  orator's  sensibility,  will  add  greatly  to  his  pathetic  powers. 

In  the  fifth  place,  it  is  necessary  to  attend  to  the  proper  language 
of  the  passions.  We  should  observe  in  what  manner  any  one  ex- 
presses himself,  who  is  under  the  power  of  a  real  and  a  strong  pas- 
sion; and  we  shall  always  find  his  language  unaffected  and  simple. 
It  may  be  animated,  indeed,  with  bold  and  strong  figures,  but  it  will 
have  no  ornament  or  finery.  He  is  not  at  leisure  to  follow  out  the 
play  of  imagination.  His  mind  being  wholly  seized  by  one  object 
which  has  heated  it,  he  has  no  other  aim,  but  to  represent  that,  in 
all  its  circumstances,  as  strongly  as  he  feels  it.  This  must  be  the 
style  of  the  orator,  when  he  would  be  pathetic;  and  this  will  be  his 
styie,  if  he  speaks  from  real  feeling;  bold,  ardent,  simple.  No  sort 
of  description  will  then  succeed,  but  what  is  written  'fervente  ea- 
lamo.'  If  he  stay  till  he  can  work  up  his  style,  and  polish  and  adorn 
it,  he  will  infallibly  cool  his  own  ardour,  and  then  he  will  touch  the 
heart  no  more.  His  composition  will  become  frigid;  it  will  be  the 
language  of  one  who  describes,  but  who  does  not  feel.  We  must 
take  notice,  that  there  is  a  great  difference  between  painting  to  the 
imagination,  and  painting  to  the  heart.  The  one  may  be  done  cool- 
ly, and  at  leisure;  the  other  must  always  be  rapid  and  ardent.  In 
the  former,  art  and  labour  may  be  suffered  to  appear;  in  the  latter, 
no  effect  can  follow,  unless  it  seem  to  be  the  work  of  nature  only. 

In  the  sixth  place,  avoid  interweaving  any  thing  of  a  foreign  na- 
ture with  the  pathetic  part  of  a  discourse.  Beware  of  all  digres- 
sions, which  may  interrupt  or  turn  aside  the  natural  course  of  the 
passion.,  when  once  it  begins  to  rise  and  swell.  Sacrifice  all  beau- 
ties, however  bright  and  showy,  which  would  divert  the  mind  from 
the  principal  object,  and  which  would  amuse  the  imagination, 
rather  than  touch  the  heart.  Hence  comparisons  are  always  dan- 
gerous, and  generally  quite  improper,  in  the  midst  of  passion.  Be- 
vvare  even  of  reasoning  unseasonably ;  or,  at  least,  of  carrying  on  a 
long  and  subtile  train  of  reasoning,  on  occasions  when  the  princi- 
pal aim  is  to  excite  warm  emotions. 

In  the  last  place,  never  attempt  prolonging  the  pathetic  too  much. 
Warm  emotions  are  too  violent  to  be  lasting. t     Study  the  propei 

*  'Uthominem  occisum  querar;  non  omnia  quae  in  re  present!  accidisse  credibile 
est  in  occulis  habebo?  Non  percussor  ille  subitus  erumpet?  non  expavescet  circum- 
ventus ?  exclamabit,  vel  rogabit,  vel  fugiet?  non  ferientem,  non  concidentem  videbo  ' 
non  animo  sanguis,  et  pallor,  et  gemitus,  extremus  denique  expirantis  hiatus,  insidet  • 
Ubi  vero  miseratione  opus  erit,  nobis  ea  de  quibus  querimur  accidisse  credamus,  atqur* 
id  animo  nostro  persuadeamus.  Nos  illi  simus,  quos  gravia,  indigna,  tristia,  passos 
queramur.  Nee  agamus  rem  quasi  alienam  ;  scd  assumamus  parumper  ilium  dolorem 
Ita  dicemus,  quae  in  simili  nostro  casu  dicturi  essemus.'  Lib.  6. 

i  'Nunquam  debet  esse  longa  miseratio  ;  nam  cum  veros  dolores  mitiget  tempui 

3F  46 


362  THE  PATHETIC  PART  [lect.  xxxn 

time  of  making  a  retreat;  of  making  a  transition  from  the  passion- 
ate to  the  calm  tone;  in  such  a  manner,  however,  as  to  descend 
without  falling,  by  keeping  up  the  same  strain  of  sentiment  that  was 
carried  on  before,  though  now  expressing  it  with  more  moderation. 
Above  all  things,  beware  of  straining  passion  too  far;  of  attempting 
to  raise  it  to  unnatural  heights  Preserve  always  a  due  regard  to 
what  the  hearers  will  bear;  and  remember,  that  he  who  stops  not 
at  the  proper  point ;  who  attempts  to  carry  them  farther  in  pas- 
sion than  they  will  follow  him,  destroys  his  whole  design.  By  en- 
deavouring to  warm  them  too  much,  he  takes  the  most  effectual 
method  of  freezing  them  completely. 

Having  given  these  rules  concerning  the  pathetic,  I  shall  give 
one  example  from  Cicero,  which  will  serve  to  illustrate  several  of 
them,  particularly  the  last.  It  shall  be  taken  from  his  oration  against 
Verres,  wherein  he  describes  the  cruelty  exercised  by  Verres,  when 
governor  of  Sicily,  against  one  Gavius,  a  Roman  citizen.  This  Ga- 
vius  had  made  his  escape  from  prison,  into  which  he  had  been 
thrown  by  the  governor ;  and  when  just  embarkingat  Messina,  think- 
ing himself  now  safe,  had  uttered  some  threats,  that  when  he  had 
once  arrived  at  Rome,  Verres  should  hear  of  him,  and  be  brought  to 
account  for  having  put  a  Roman  citizen  in  chains.  The  chief  ma- 
gistrate of  Messina,  a  creature  of  Verres's,  instantly  apprehends 
him,  and  gives  information  of  his  threatenings.  The  behaviour  of 
Verres,  on  this  occasion,  is  described  in  the  most  picturesque  manner, 
and  with  all  the  colours  which  are  proper,  in  order  to  excite  against 
him  the  public  indignation.  He  thanks  the  magistrate  of  Messina 
for  his  diligence.  Filled  with  rage,  he  comes  into  the  forum  ;  orders 
Gavius  to  be  brought  forth,  the  executioners  to  attend,  and  against 
the  laws,  and  contrary  to  the  well-known  privileges  of  a  Roman 
citizen,  commands  him  to  be  stripped  naked,  bound,  and  scourged 
publicly  in  a  cruel  manner.  Cicero  then  proceeds  thus:  'Caedeba- 
tur  virgis,  in  medio  foro  Messanse,  Civis  Romanus,  Judices !'  every 
word  rises  above  another,  in  describing  this  flagrant  enormity;  and, 
'Judices,'  is  brought  out  at  the  end  with  the  greatest  propriety; 
'  Caedebatur  virgis,  in  medio  foro  Messanag,  Civis  Romanus,  Judices ! 
cum  interea,  nulljs  gemitus,  nulla  vox  alia  istius  miseri,  inter  dolo- 
rem  crepitumque  plagarum  audiebatur,  nisi  hiec,  Civis  Romanus  sum. 
Hac  se  commemoratione  civitatis,  omnia  verbera  depulsurum  a  cor 
pore  arbitrabatur.  Is  non  modo  hoc  i.on  perfecit,  ut  virgarum  vim 
deprecaretur,  sed  cum  imploraret  saepius  usurparetque  nomen  civis, 
crux,  crux  inquam,  infelici  isto  &  asrumnoso,  qui  nunquam  istam 
potestatem  viderat,  comparabatur.  0  nomen  dulce  libertatis !  0 
jus  eximium  nostras  civitatis!  0  Lex  Porcia,  legesque  Semproniae! 
Huccine  omnia  tandem  reciderunt,  ut  civis  Romanus,  in  provincia 
populi  Romani,  in  oppido  fcederatorum,  ab  eo  qui  beneficio  populi 

citius  evanescat,  necesse  est  ilia,  c^uam  dicendo  effinximus,  imago:  in  qua,  si  mora- 
mur,  lacryrais  fatigatur  auditor,  et  requiescit,  et  ab  illo  quern  ceperat  impetu,  in  ratie- 
nem  redit.  Non  patiamur  igitur  frigescere  hoc  opus  ;  et  affectum,  cum  ad  summuru 
perduxerimusi  relinquamus  ;  nee  speremus  fore,  ut  alieiia  mala  quisquam  diu  ploret 

Quinct.    lib  6 


lect.  xxxii.]  OF  A  DISCOURSE.  363 

Romani  fasces  et  secures  haberet,  deligatus,  in  foro,  virgis  taedere- 
tur!'* 

Nothing  can  be  finer,  nor  better  conducted,  than  this  passage. 
The  circumstances  are  well  chosen  for  exciting  both  the  compassion 
of  his  hearers  for  Gavius,  and  their  indignation  against  Verres.  The 
style  is  simple;  and  the  passionate  exclamation,  the  address  to  lib- 
erty and  the  laws,  is  well  timed,  and  in  the  proper  style  of  passion. 
The  orator  goes  on  to  exaggerate  Verres's  cruelty  still  faither,  by. 
another  very  striking  circumstance.  He  ordered  a  gibbet  to  boi 
erected  for  Gavius,  not  in  the  common  place  of  execution,  but  just 
by  the  sea-shore,  over  against  the  coast  of  Italy.  'Let  him,'  said 
he  '  who  boasts  so  much  of  his  being  a  Roman  citizen,  take  a  view 
from  his  gibbet  of  his  own  country.  This  insult  over  a  dying  man 
is  the  least  part  of  his  guilt.  It  was  not  Gavius  alone  that  Ver- 
res meant  to  insult;  but  it  was  you,  0  Romans!  it  was  every  citizen 
who  now  hears  me ;  in  the  person  of  Gavius,  he  scoffed  at  your 
rights,  and  showed  in  what  contempt  he  held  the  Roman  name,  and 
Roman  liberties.' 

Hitherto  all  is  beautiful,  animated,  pathetic;  and  the  model 
would  have  been  perfect,  if  Cicero  had  stopped  at  this  point 
But  his  redundant  and  florid  genius  carried  him  further.  He  must 
needs  interest,  not  his  hearers  only,  but  the  beasts,  the  mountains,  and 
the  stones,  against  Verres:  'Si  haec  non  ad  cives  Romanos,  non  ad 
arnicos  nostrae  civitatis,  non  ad  eos  qui  populi  Romani  nomen  audis- 
sent;  denique  si  non  ad  homines,  verum  ad  bestias;  atque  ut  lon- 
giusprogrediar,  si  inaliqua  desertissima  solitudine,  adsaxaetadsco- 
pulos,  hsec  conqueri  et  deplorare  vellem,  tamen  omnia  muta  atque 
inanima,  tanta  et  tarn  indigna  rerum  atrocitate  commoverentur.'t 
This,  with  all  the  deference  due  to  so  eloquent  an  orator,  we  must 
pronounce  to  be  declamatory,  not  pathetic.  This  is  straining  the 
language  of  passion  too  far.  Every  hearer  sees  this  immediately 
to  be  a  studied  figure  of  rhetoric;  it  may  amuse  him,  but  instead  of 

*  '  In  the  midst  of  the  market-place  of  Messina,  a  Roman  citizen,  O  Judges  !  was 
cruelly  scourged  with  rods  ;  when,  in  the  mean  time,  amidst  the  noise  of  the  blows 
which  he  suffered,  no  voice,  no  complaint  of  this  unhappy  man  was  heard,  except 
this  exclamation,  remember  that  I  am  a  Roman  citizen  !  By  pleading  this  privilege 
of  his  birthright,  he  hoped  to  have  stopped  the  strokes  of  the  executioner.  But  his 
hopes  were  vain  ;  for,  so  far  was  he  from  being  able  to  obtain  thereby  any  mitigation 
of  his  torture,  that  when  he  continued  to  repeat  this  exclamation,  and  to  plead  the 
rights  of  a  citizen,  a  cross,  a  cross,  I  say,  was  preparing  to  be  set  up  for  the  exe- 
cution of  this  unfortunate  person,  who  never  before  had  beheld  that  instrument  oj 
cruel  death.  O  sacred  and  honoured  name  of  liberty!  O  boasted  and  revered  privilege 
of  a  Roman  citizen  !  O  ye  Porcian  and  Sempronian  laws !  to  this  issue  have  ye'  all 
come,  that  a  citizen  of  Rome,  in  a  province  of  the  Roman  empire,  within  an  allied 
city,  should  publicly  in  a  market-place  be  loaded  with  chains,  and  beaten  with  rods, 
at  the  command  of  one  who,  from  the  favour  of  the  Roman  people  alone,  derived  all 
his  authority  and  ensigns  of  power!' 

t  '  Were  I  employed  in  lamenting  those  instances  of  an  atrocious  oppression 
and  cruelty,  not  among  an  assembly  of  Roman  citizens,  not  among  the  allies  of 
our  state,  not  among  those  who  had  ever  heard  the  name  of  the  Roman  people, 
not  even  among  human  creatures,  but  in  the  midst  of  the  brute  creation  ;  and  to  go 
farther,  were  I  pouring  forth  my  lamentations  to  the  stones,  and  to  the  rocks,  in  some 
remote  and  desert  wilderness,  even  tho<e  mute  and  inanimate  beings  would,  at  the 
ecital  of  such  shocking  indignities,  be  thrown  into  commotion  ' 


S64  CONCLUSION  OF  A  DISCOURSE,     [lect.  xxxii. 

Inflaming  him  more,  it,  in  truth,  cools  his  passion.  So  dangerous  it 
is  to  give  scope  to  a  flowery  imagination,  when  one  intends  to  make 
a  strong  and  passionate  impression. 

No  other  part  of  the  discourse  remains  now  to  be  treated  of,  except 
the  peroration,  or  conclusion.  Concerning  this,  it  is  needless  to  say 
much,  because  it  must  vary  considerably,  according  to  the  strain  of 
the  preceding  discourse.  Sometimes,  the  whole  pathetic  part  comes 
in  most  properly  at  the  peroration.  Sometimes,  when  the  dis- 
course has  been  entirely  argumentative,  it  is  fit  to  conclude  with 
summing  up  the  arguments,  placing  them  in  one  view,  and  leaving 
the  impression  of  them,  full  and  strong,  on  the  mind  of  the  audi- 
ence. For  the  great  rule  of  a  conclusion,  and  what  nature  obvious- 
ly suggests,  is,  to  place  that  last  on  which  we  choose  that  the  strength 
of  our  cause  should  rest. 

In  sermons,  inferences  from  what  has  been  said,  make  a  common 
conclusion.  With  regard  to  these,  care  should  be  taken  not  only 
that  they  rise  naturally,  but,  (what  is  less  commonly  attended  to) 
that  they  should  so  much  agree  with  the  strain  of  sentiment  through- 
out the  discourse,  as  not  to  break  the  unity  of  the  sermon.  For  in 
ferences,  how  justly  soever  they  may  be  deduced  from  the  doc- 
trine of  the  text,  yet  have  a  bad  effect,  if,  at  the  conclusion  of  a 
discourse,  they  introduce  a  subject  altogether  new,  and  turn  off 
our  attention  from  the  main  object  to  which  the  preacher  may  have 
directed  our  thoughts.  They  appear,  in  this  case,  like  excrescences 
jutting  out  from  the  body,  which  form  an  unnatural  addition  to  it; 
and  tend  to  enfeeble  the  impression  which  the  composition,  as  a 
whole,  is  calculated  to  make. 

The  most  eloquent  of  the  French,  perhaps,  indeed, of  all  modern 
orators,  Bossuet,  bishop  of  Meaux,  terminates  in  a  very  moving 
manner,  his  funeral  oration  on  the  great  prince  of  Conde,  with  this 
return  upon  himself,  and  his  old  age  :  '  Accept,  0  prince  !  these 
last  efforts  of  a  voice  which  you  once  well  knew.  With  you,  all  my 
funeral  discourses  are  now  to  end.  Instead  of  deploring  the  death  ot 
others>  henceforth,  it  shall  be  my  study  to  learn  from  you,  how  my 
own  may  be  blessed.  Happy,  if  warned  by  those  gray  hairs,  ot 
the  account  which  I  must  soon  give  of  my  ministry,  I  reserve,  solely, 
for  that  flock  whom  I  ought  to  feed  with  the  word  of  life,  the  feeble 
remains  of  a  voice  which  now  trembles,  and  of  an  ardour  which  is 
now  on  the  point  of  being  extinct.'* 

In  all  discourses,  it  is  a  matter  of  importance  to  hit  the  precise 
time  of  concluding,  so  as  to  bring  our  discourse  just  to  a  point; 
neither  ending  abruptly  and  unexpectedly;  nor  disappointing  the 
expectation  of  the  hearers,  when  they  look  for  the  close,  and  con- 

*  '  Agreez  ces  derniers  efforts  d'une  voix  que  vous  fat  connue.  Vous  mettrez  fin 
a  tous  ces  discours.  Au  lieu  de  d6plorer  la  mort  des  autres,  grand  prince!  dore- 
navant  je  veux  apprendre  de  vous,  a  rendre  la  mienne  sainte.  Heureux,  si  averti 
par  ces  cheveux  blancs,  du  compte  que  je  dois  rendre  de  mon  administration  je 
reserve  au  troupeau  que  je  dois  nourrir  de  la  parole  de  vie,  lcs  restes  d'une  voix  qui 
tombe,  k.  d'une  arrleur  qui  s'eteint.'  These  are  the  last  sentences  of  that  oratior* :  bu* 
the  whole  of  the  peroration, from  thai  passage,  'Venez  peuples,  venez  maintenan*. 
kc.  though  it  is  too  long  for  insertion,  is  a  great  master-piece  of  paihetic  eloquence. 


LECT.  XXX11.J 


QUESTIONS. 


365 


tinuing  to  hover  round  and  round  the  conclusion,  till  they  become 
heavtily  tired  of  us.  We  should  endeavour  to  go  off  with  a  good 
grace  ;  not  to  end  with  a  languishing  and  drawling  sentence  ;  but 
to  close  with  dignity  and  spirit,  that  we  may  leave  the  minds  of  the 
hearers  warm,  and  dismiss  them  with  a  favourable  impression  oi 
the  subject,  and  of  the  speaker. 


Q,UESTIOXS. 


In  treating  of  the  constituent  parts 
of  a  regular  discourse,  what  have  been 
considered  1  To  what  does  our  author 
next  proceed  ?  From  what,  does  it  ap- 
pear that  this  is  always  of  the  greatest 
consequence  ?  Of  what  do  reason  and 
argument  make  the  foundation  ?  With 
respect  to  argument,  what  three  things 
are  requisite?  Of  invention,  what  is 
observed  ?  Of  art,  what  is  remarked ; 
and  why  ?  What  was  attempted  by 
the  ancient  rhetoricians ;  and  what  did 
they  profess?  Hence,  what  arose?  Oi' 
these  topics,  or  loci,  what  is  observed  ? 
What  had  they  ?  What  were  the  com- 
mon, or  general  loci?  For  each  of  the 
different  kinds  of  public  speaking,  what 
had  they?  How  is  this  remark  illus- 
trated ?  Who  were  the  first  inventors 
■>f  this  artificial  system  of  oratory,  and 
in  the  contrivance  of  their  loci,  what 
did  they  show  ?  Of  succeeding  rhetori- 
cians, what  is  observed  ?  At  the  same 
time,  what  is  evident  ?  What  did  the 
loci  supply;  and  what  remark  follows? 
Whence  must  what  is  truly  solid  and 
persuasive  in  >ratory  be  drawn;  and 
what  remark  follows  ?  On  this  doctrine, 
what  is  farther  remarked ;  and  to  what 
sources  are  those  referred  who  think 
that  the  knowledge  of  them  may  con- 
tribute to  improve  their  invention  ?  But 
when  are  they  advised  to  lay  aside 
their  common  piaces,  and  to  think 
closely  on  their  subject?  Of  Demosthe- 
nes and  Cicero,  what  is  here  observed  ? 
To  what  does  our  author  proceed  ? 
What  two  different  methods  may  be 
used  by  orators  in  the  conduct  of  their 
reasoning?  What  is  the  analytic  me- 
thod ?  How  are  his  hearers  led  on  ?  Of 
this  method,  Avhat  illustration  is  given? 
With  what  method  is  this  much  the 
eame  ;  and  of  it,  what  is  observed  ?  But, 
what  remark  follows  ;  and  consequent- 
ly, what  mode  of  reasoning  is  more  ge- 
nerally used  ?  In  all  arguing,  what  is 
one  of  the  first  things  to  be  attended  to? 


In  what  situation  should  every  speaker 
place  himself;  and  why?  What  re- 
marks follow  ?  Supposing  their  argu- 
ments properly  chosen,  on  what,  is  it 
evident,  their  effect,  in  some  measure, 
will  depend  ?  Concerning  this,  what  is 
the  first  rule  that  may  be  taken  ?  All 
arguments  are  directed  to  prove  one  of 
what  three  things ;  and  what  do  these 
make  ?  Of  the  arguments  directed  to 
wards  any  one  of  these,  what  is  re- 
marked ?  Of  this  remark,  what  illus- 
tration is  given  ?  In  the  second  place, 
with  regard  to  the  different  degrees  oi 
strength  in  argument,  what  rule  is 
given  ?  When,  especially,  is  this  to  be 
the  course  ?  What  course  may  he  then 
venture  to  pursue  ?  Why  is  not  thk. 
rule  to  be  always  followed  ?  About  in 
conclusive  arguments,  what  does  Cice 
ro  advise  ?  Of  arguments,  in  the  third 
place,  what  is  observed;  and  why? 
But  when  is  it  safer  to  throw  them  to- 
gether ?  What  says  Quintilian  on  this, 
subject;  and  what  example  is  given  1 
Where  have  we  a  most  beautiful  ex- 
ample of  the  distinct  amplification  oi 
one  persuasive  argument  ?  From  what 
is  the  argument  taken?  Repeat  the 
manner  in  wnich  it  is  conducted.  Re- 
peat the  passage.  In  the  fourth  place, 
against  what  must  we  guard  ?  What  ef- 
fect does  this  have  ?  What,  also,  is  to  be 
observed?  From  what  does  this  detract  ? 
When  a  speaker  dwells  long  on  any 
favourite  argument,  what  is  the  conse- 
quence? After  due  attention  to  the 
proper  arrangements  of  arguments, 
what  is  the  next  requisite  for  their  suc- 
cess ?  On  these  heads,  to  what  is  the 
reader  referred  ?  To  what  does  our  au- 
thor, therefore,  next  proceed  ?  In  com- 
batting what  scruples,  will  our  author 
not,  in  beginning  this  head,  take  up 
time ;  and  why  ?  Where,  is  it  evident, 
the  passions  have  no  concern  ?  What 
remark  follows?  What  illustration  of 
this  remark  is  given?  But  why  does 


565 


QUESTIONS. 


[LECT    X3X1I 


me  man  who  seriously  intends  to  per- 
suade another,  address  himself  to  his 
passions  ?  How  is  this  illustrated  ?  In 
treating  of  this  part  of  eloquence,  what 
attempt  did  the  ancients  make,  and  for 
what  purpose  1  What  order  did  they  fol- 
ow  ?  What  has  Aristotle  done ;  and  of 
t,  what  is  observed  ?  What  cannot  confer 
this  talent ;  and  to  what  must  we  be 
indebted  for  it  ?  With  what  attainment 
may  one  remain  a  cold  and  dry  speak- 
er? What  is  the  use  of  rules  and  in- 
structions on  this,  or  any  other  part  of 
oratory  ? 

On  the  head  of  the  pathetic,  what  is 
the  first  direction  given  ?  Why  does  it 
belong  to  good  sense  to  determine  these 
points  ?  What  is  all  that  can,  in  gene- 
ral, be  said  ?  Of  what  must  the  hearers 
be  convinced  ;  and  what  may  they  be 
able  to  justify  ?  Unless  their  minds  be 
brought  into  this  state,  what  will  be 
the  consequence  ?  Hence,  what  place 
have  most  writers  assigned  to  the  pa- 
thetic ;  and  what  remark  follows  ?  In 
the  second  place,  what  does  our  author 
advise  ?  What  is  almost  always  the  ef- 
fect of  this ;  and  why  ?  What  is  the  in- 
direct method  of  making  an  impression? 
How  can  this  often  be  happily  done  ? 
In  the  third  place,  what  is  it  necessary 
to  observe  ?  By  whom  is  this  distinction 
not  sufficiently  attended  to  ;  and  of 
them,  what  is  here  observed  ?  How  is 
this  remark  illustrated  ?  To  every  emo- 
tion, or  passion,  what  has  nature  adapt- 
ed ;  and  what  follows  ?  What  illustra- 
tion of  this  remark  follows?  All  this 
time  he  is  speaking  of  what?  When, 
only,  does  the  heart  begin  to  be  touch- 
ed, and  the  gratitude  and  compassion 
begin  to  flow?  What,  therefore,  is  the 
foundation  of  all  successful  execution  in 
the  way  of  pathetic  oratory?  By  what 
is  every  passion  most  strongly  excited  ; 
and  what  examples  are  given  ?  Why 
must  the  orator,  therefore,  avail  himself 
if  this  power?  To  accomplish  this, 
what,  in  the  fourth  place,  is  the  only 
effectual  method  ;  and  why  ?  What  is 
the  effect  of  the  internal  emotion  of  the 
speaker?  Why  does  our  author  not 
now  insist  on  this  point  ?  Of  what  does 
Quintilian  take  pains  to  inform  us ;  and 
what  was  it?  To  this  method,  what 
does  he  attribute;  and  of  what  can 
Jiere  be  no  doubt  ?  In  the  fifth  place, 
jo  what  is  it  necessary  to  attend? 
'Vliat  should  we  observe;   and  what 


shall  we  always  find?  Of  this  Ian 
guage,  what  is  further  remarked  ;  and 
why  not?  His  mind  being  wholly  seized 
by  one  object,  which  has  fired  it,  what 
is  the  consequence?  When  must  this 
be  the  style  of  the  orator ;  and  when, 
in  reality,  will  it  be  his  style  ;  and  what 
will  be  the  consequence  ?  When  wil! 
he  touch  the  heart  no  more ;  and  what 
will  his  composition  become  ?  Of  what 
must  we  take  notice  ?  How  is  this  dif- 
ference illustrated  ?  In  the  sixth  place, 
what  must  be  avoided?  Of  what  di- 
gressions should  we  beware  ;  and  what 
beauties  should  Ave  sacrifice  ?  Hence, 
of  comparisons,  what  is  observed ;  and 
of  what  further  should  we  beware?  In 
the  last  place,  what  should  we  never 
attempt ;  and  why  ?  In  what  manner 
must  we.  however,  study  to  make  our 
retreat  ?  Above  all  things,  of  what 
must  we  beware?  A  due  regard  to 
what  must  we  always  preserve ;  and 
what  must  we  remember  ?  By  endea- 
vouring to  warm  them  too  much,  of 
what  does  he  take  the  most  effectual 
method?  Having  given  these  rules 
concerning  the  pathetic,  what  does  our 
author  do  ?  Whence  is  it  taken  ?  Of 
this  Gavius,  what  is  related ;  and  also 
of  the  chief  magistrate  of  Messina? 
How  is  the  behaviour  of  Verres,  on  this 
occasion,  described?  Entering  the  fo- 
rum, what  does  he  there  direct,  and 
what  follows  ?  How  does  Cicero  then 
proceed  ?  Of  this  passage,  what  is  ob 
served  ?  In  what  manner  does  the  ora- 
tor exaggerate  Verres'  cruelty  still  far- 
ther ?  Of  the  address,  hitherto,  what  is 
observed?  But  what  must  he  needs  do? 
Repeat  what  follows.  What  must  we 
pronounce  this  to  be  ?  What  does  every 
hearer  immediately  perceive  ?  What 
remark  follows  ?  What  part,  only,  now 
remains  to  be  treated  cf  ?  Concerning 
this,  why  is  it  needless  to  say  much  1 
How  is  this  remark  illustrated?  What 
is  the  great  rule  of  a  conclusion  ?  In 
sermons,  what  make  a  common  con 
elusion  ?  With  regard  to  these,  about 
what  should  care  be  taken  ;  and  why? 
In  this  case,  like  what  do  they  appeal  I 
In  what  manner  does  the  most  eloquent 
of  the  French  orators  terminate  his 
funeral  oration  on  the  great  prince  of 
Cond6  ?  Repeat  the  passage.  In  the 
conclusion  of  all  discourses,  what  is  o 
matter  of  importance  ?  How  should  w? 
endeavour  to  go  oft";  and  not.  to  end  i-. 


LECT.  XXXIII.] 


QUESTIONS. 


365  i 


what  manner  ?   Why  should  we  end 
•villi  dignity  and  spirit  % 

ANALYSIS" 
The  argument  of  a  discourse. 

a.  The  invention  of  arguments. 

b.  The  analytic  and  synthetic  methods. 
Rules  for  the  proper  disposition  of  argu- 
ments. 

a.  They  should  not  be  blended  together. 

b.  They  should  advance  in  the  way  of 
climax. 

c.  If  strong,  they  should   be  distinctly 
treated. 


d.  They  should  not  be  extende  1  too  far 

2.  The  pathetic  part  of  a  discourse.       • 

A.  Discretion  necessary  in  introducing  it 

b.  No  part  of  the  discourse  should  be  sel 
apart  for  it. 

c.  The  speaker  should  actually  affect  the 
hearers. 

d.  The  speaker  should  be  moved  himself. 

e.  The  proper  language  of  the  passions 
should  be  attended  to. 

F.  Nothing  foreign  should  be  interwoven 

with  it. 
g.  It  should  not  be  too  much  prolonged. 

3.  Instances  of  the  pathetic. 


LECTURE   XXXIII. 


PRONUNCIATION,  OR  DELIVERY. 

Having  treated  of  several  general  heads  relating  to  eloquence,  or 
public  speaking,  I  now  proceed  to  another  very  important  part  of 
the  subject  yet  remaining,  that  is,  the  pronunciation,  or  delivery  of  a 
discourse.  How  much  stress  was  laid  upon  this  by  the  most  elo- 
quent of  all  orators,  Demosthenes,  appears  from  a  noted  saying  of 
his,  related  both  by  Cicero  and  Quintilian  ;  when  being  asked,  what 
was  the  first  point  in  oratory  1  he  answered,  delivery  ;  and  being  ask- 
ed, what  was  the  second  1  and  afterwards,  what  was  the  third  1  he 
still  answered,  delivery.  There  is  no  wonder  that  he  should  have 
rated  this  so  high,  and  that  for  improving  himself  in  it,  he  should  have 
employed  those  assiduous  and  painful  labours,  which  all  the  ancients 
take  so  much  notice  of;  for,  beyond  doubt,  nothing  is  of  more  im- 
portance. To  superficial  thinkers,  the  management  of  the  voice 
and  gesture,  in  public  speaking,  may  appear  to  relate  to  decoration 
only,  and  to  be  one  of  the  inferior  arts  of  catching  an  audience.  But 
this  is  far  from  being  the  case.  It  is  intimately  connected  with  what 
is,  or  ought  to  be,  the  end  of  all  public  speaking,  persuasion  ;  and, 
therefore,  deserves  the  study  of  the  most  grave  and  serious  speakers, 
as  much  as  of  those  whose  only  aim  it  is  to  please. 

For,  let  it  be  considered,  whenever  we  address  ourselves  to  others 
by  words,  our  intention  certainly  is  to  make  some  impression  on 
those  to  whom  we  speak :  it  is  to  convey  to  them  our  own  ideas  and 
emotions.  Now,  the  tone  of  our  voice,  our  looks  and  gestures,  inter- 
pret our  ideas  and  emotions  no  less  than  words  do  ;  nay,  the  impres- 
sion they  make  on  others,  is  frequently  much  stronger  than  any  that 
words  can  make.  We  can  see  that  an  expressive  look,  or  a  passion- 
ate cry,  unaccompanied  by  words,  convey  to  others  more  forcible 
ideas,  and  rouses  within  them  stronger  passions,  than  can  be  com- 
municated by  the  most  eloquent  disccurse.  The  signification  of  our 
sentiments,  made  by  tones  and  gestures,  has  this  advantage  above 
that  made  by  words,  that  it  is  the  language  of  nature.  It  is  that 
method  of  interpreting  our  mind,  which  nature  has  dictated  to  alL 
and  which  is  understood  by  all ;  whereas,  words  are  only  arbitrary, 
conventional  symbols  of  our  ideas,  and,  by  consequence,  must  make 
a  more  feeble  impression.  So  true  is  this,  that  to  render  words  fully 
significant,  they  must,  almost  in  every  case,  receive  some  aid  from 


366  PRONUNCIATION,  OR  DELIVERY     [lect.  xxxm 

the  manner  of  pronunciation  and  delivery;  and  he  who,  in  speaking 
should  employ  bare  words,  without  enforcing  them  by  proper  tones 
and  accents,  would  leave  us  with  a  faint  and  indistinct  impression, 
often  with  a  doubtful  and  ambiguous  conception,  of  what  he  had  de- 
livered. Nay,  so  close  is  the  connexion  between  certain  sentiments 
and  the  proper  manner  of  pronouncing  them,  that  he  who  does  not 
pronounce  them  after  that  manner,  can  never  persuade  us,  that  he 
believes,  or  feels,  the  sentiments  themselves.  His  delivery  may  be 
such,  as  to  give  the  lie  to  all  that  he  asserts.  When  Marcus  Oalli- 
dius  accused  one  of  an  attempt  to  poison  him,  but  enforced  his  ac- 
cusation in  a  languid  manner,  and  without  any  warmth  or  earnest- 
ness of  delivery,  Cicero,  who  pleaded  for  the  accused  person,  im- 
proved this  into  an  argument  of  the  falsity  of  the  charge,  'An  tu, 
M.  Callidi,  nisi  fingeres,  sic  ageres?'  In  Shakspeare's  Richard  II. 
the  Duchess  of  York  thus  impeaches  the  sincerity  of  her  husband  : 

Pieads  he  in  earnest  ? — Look  upon  his  face, 

His  eyes  do  drop  no  tears  ;  his  prayers  are  jest;  i 

His  words  come  from  his  mouth;  ours,  from  our  breast} 

He  prays  but  faintly,  and  would  be  denied ; 

We  pray  with  heart  and  soul. 

But  I  believe  it  is  needless  to  say  any  more,  in  order  to  show  the 
high  importance  of  a  good  delivery.  I  proceed,  therefore,  to  such 
observations  as  appear  to  me  most  useful  to  be  made  on  this  head. 

The  great  objects  which  every  public  speaker  will  naturally  have 
in  his  eye  in  forming  his  delivery,  are,  first,  to  speak  so  as  to  be 
fully  and  easily  understood  by  all  who  hear  him;  and  next,  to  speak 
with  grace  and  force,  so  as  to  please  and  to  move  his  audience.  Let 
us  consider  what  is  most  important  with  respect  to  each  of  these.* 

In  order  to  be  fully  and  easily  understood,  the  four  chief  requi- 
sites are,  a  due  degree  of  loudness  of  voice,  distinctness,  slowness, 
and  propriety  of  pronunciation. 

The  first  attention  of  every  public  speaker,  doubtless,  must  be,  to 
make  himself  be  heard  by  all  those  to  whom  he  speaks.  He  must 
endeavour  to  fill  with  his  voice  the  space  occupied  by  the  assembly. 
This  power  of  voice,  it  may  be  thought,  is  wholly  a  natural  talent. 
It  is  so  ijn  a  good  measure ;  but,  however,  may  receive  considera- 
ble assistance  from  art.  Much  depends  for  this  purpose  on  the  pro- 
per pitch,  and  management  of  the  voice.  Every  man  has  three 
pitches  in  his  voice;  the  high,  the  middle,  and  the  low  one.  The 
high,  is  that  which  he  uses  in  calling  aloud  to  some  one  at  a  dis- 
tance. The  low  is,  when  he  approaches  to  a  whisper.  The  middle 
is,  that  which  he  employs  in  common  conversation,  and  which  he 
should  generally  use  in  public  discourse.  For  it  is  a  great  mistake, 
to  imagine  that  one  must  take  the  highest  pitch  of  his  voice,  in  order 
to  be  well  heard  by  a  great  assembly.  This  is  confounding  two 
things  which  are  different,  loudness,  or  strength  of  sound,  with  the 
key  it  note  on  which  we  speak.     A  speaker  may  render  his  voice 

*  On  this  whole  subject,  Mr.  Sheridan's  Lectures  on  Elocution  are  very  worthy  A 
being  consulted;  and  several  hints  are  here  taken  from  them. 


lect.  xxxin.]  OF  A  DISCOURSE.  367 

louder,  without  altering  the  key;  and  we  shall  always  be  able  to  give 
most  body,  most  persevering  force  of  sound,  to  that  pitch  of  voice, 
to  which  in  conversation  we  are  accustomed.  Whereas,  by  setting 
out  on  our  highest  pitch  or  key,  we  certainly  allow  ourselves  less 
compass,  and  are  likely  to  strain  our  voice  before  we  have  done. 
We  shall  fatigue  ourselves,  and  speak  with  pain;  and  whenever  a 
man  speaks  with  pain  to  himself,  he  is  always  heard  with  pain  by 
his  audience.  Give  the  voice, therefore, full  strength  and  swell  of 
sound ;  but  always  pitch  it  on  your  ordinary  speaking  key.  Make 
it  a  constant  rule  never  to  utter  a  greater  quantity  of  voice,  than  you 
can  afford  without  pain  to  yourselves,  and  without  any  extraordina- 
ry effort.  As»long  as  you  keep  within  these  bounds,  the  other  or- 
gans of  speech  will  be  at  liberty  to  discharge  their  several  offices 
with  ease;  and  you  will  always  have  your  voice  under  command. 
But  whenever  you  transgress  these  bounds,  you  give  up  the  reins, 
•»nd  have  no  longer  any  management  of  it.  It  is  an  useful  rule  too, 
in  order  to  be  well  heard,  to  fix  our  eye  on  some  of  the  most  distant 
persons  in  the  assembly,  and  to  consider  ourselves  as  speaking  to 
then.-  We  naturally  and  mechanically  utter  our  words  with  such 
a  degree  of  strength,  as  to  make  ourselves  be  heard  by  one  to  whom 
we  address  ourselves,  provided  he  be  within  the  reach  of  our  voice. 
As  this  is  the  case  in  common  conversation,  it  will  hold  also  in  pub- 
lic speaking.  But  remember,  that  in  public  as  well  as  in  conver- 
sation, it  is  possible  to  offend  by  speaking  too  loud.  This  extreme 
hurts  the  ear,  by  making  the  voice  come  upon  it  in  rumbling  indis- 
tinct masses ;  besides  its  giving  the  speaker  the  disagreeable  appear- 
ance of  one  who  endeavours  to  compel  assent,  by  mere  vehemence 
and  force  of  sound. 

In  the  next  place,  to  being  well  heard  and  clearly  understood, 
distinctness  of  articulation  contributes  more,  perhaps,  than  mere 
loudness  of  sound.  The  quantity  of  sound  necessary  to  fill  even  a 
large  space,  is  smaller  than  is  commonly  imagined;  and  with  dis- 
tinct articulation,  a  man  of  a  weak  voice  will  make  it  reach  farther 
than  the  strongest  voice  can  reach  without  it.  To  this,  therefore, 
every  public  speaker  ought  to  pay  great  attention.  He  must  give 
every  sound  which  he  utters  its  due  proportion,  and  make  every 
syllable,  and  even  every  letter  in  the  word  which  he  pronounces,  be 
heard  distinctly;  without  slurring,  whispering,  or  suppressing  any 
of  the  proper  sounds. 

In  the  third  place,  in  order  to  articulate  distinctly,  moderation  is 
requisite  with  regard  to  the  speed  of  pronouncing.  Precipitancy 
of  speech  confounds  all  articulation,  and  all  meaning.  I  need 
scarcely  observe,  that  there  may  be  also  an  extreme  on  the  opposite 
side.  It  is  obvious  that  a  lifeless,  drawling  pronunciation,  which 
allows  the  minds  of  the  hearers  to  be  always  outrunning  the  speak- 
er, must  render  every  discourse  insipid  and  fatiguing.  But  the  ex- 
treme of  speaking  too  fast  is  much  more  common,  and  requires  the 
more  to  be  guarded  against,  because,  when  it  has  grown  up  into  a 
habit,  few  errors  are  more  difficult  to  be  corrected.  To  pronounce 
with  a  proper  degree  of  slowness,  and  with  a  full  and  clear  articula- 
3G 


PRONUNCIATION,  OR  DELIVERY     [lect.  xxxiii 

lion,  is  the  first  thing  to  be  studied  by  all  who  begin  to  speak  in  pub- 
lic; and  cannot  be  too  much  recommended  to  them.  Such  a  pronun- 
ciation gives  weight  and  dignity  to  their  discourse.  It  is  a  great 
assistance  to  the  voice,  by  the  pauses  and  rests  which  it  allows  it 
more  easily  to  make;  and  it  enables  the  speaker  to  swell  all  his 
sounds  both  with  more  force  and  more  music.  It  assists  him  alsc 
in  preserving  a  due  command  of  himself;  whereas  a  rapid  and  hur- 
ried manner  is  apt  to  excite  that  flutter  of  spirits,  which  is  the  great- 
est enemy  to  all  right  execution  in  the  way  of  oratory.  'Promp- 
tum  sit  os,'  says  Quintilian, '  non  pneceps,  moderatum,  non  lentum.' 

After  these  fundamental  attentions  to  the  pitch  and  management 
of  the  voice,  to  distinct  articulation,  and  to  a  proper  degree  of  slow- 
ness of  speech,  what  a  public  speaker  must,  in  the  fourth  place, 
study,  is  propriety  of  pronunciation ;  or  the  giving  to  every  word 
which  he  utters,  that  sound  which  the  most  polite  usage  of  the  lan- 
guage appropriates  to  it;  in  opposition  to  broad,  vulgar,  or  provin- 
cial pronunciation.  This  is  requisite,  both  for  speaking  intelligibly, 
and  for  speaking  with  grace  or  beauty.  Instructions  concerning 
this  article  can  be  given  by  the  living  voice  only.  But  there  is  one 
observation,  which  it  may  not  be  improper  here  to  make.  In  the 
English  language,  every  word  which  consists  of  more  syllables  than 
one,  has  one  accented  syllable.  The  accent  rests  sometimes  on  the 
vowel,  sometimes  on  the  consonant.  Seldom,  or  never,  is  there 
more  than  one  accented  syllable  in  any  English  word,  however 
long;  and  the  genius  of  the  language  requires  the  voice  to  mark  that 
syllable  by  a  stronger  percussion,  and  to  pass  more  slightly  over  the 
rest.  Now,  after  we  have  learned  the  proper  seats  of  these  accents, 
it  is  an  important  rule  to  give  every  word  just  the  same  accent  in 
public  speaking,  as  in  common  discourse.  Many  persons  err  in  this 
respect.  When  they  speak  in  public,  and  with  solemnity,  they  pro- 
nounce the  syllables  in  a  different  manner  from  what  they  do  at  other 
times.  They  dwell  upon  them,  and  protract  them;  they  multiply 
accents  on  the  same  word ;  from  a  mistaken  notion,  that  it  gives 
gravity  and  force  to  their  discourse,  and  adds  to  the  pomp  of  public 
declamation.  Whereas,  this  is  one  of  the  greatest  faults  that  can 
be  committed  in  pronunciation;  it  makes  what  is  called  a  theatrical, 
or  mouthing  manner;  and  gives  an  artificial,  affected  air  to  speech, 
which  detracts  greatly  both  from  itsagreeableness,and  its  impression. 

I  proceed  to  treat  next  of  those  higher  parts  of  delivery,  by  study- 
ing which,  a  speaker  has  something  farther  in  view  than  merely  to 
render  himself  intelligible,  and  seeks  to  give  grace  and  force  to  what 
he  utters.  These  may  be  comprised  under  four  heads,  emphasis, 
pauses,  tones,  and  gestures.  Let  me  only  premise,  in  general,  to 
what  I  am  to  say  concerning  them,  that  attention  to  these  articles  of 
delivery,  is  by  no  means  to  be  confined,  as  some  might  be  apt  to  ima- 
gine, to  the  more  elaborate  and  pathetic  parts  of  a  discourse.  There 
is,  perhaps,  as  great  attention  requisite,  and  as  much  skill  display 
ed,  in  adapting  emphasis,  pauses,  tones,  and  gestures,  properly  to 
calm  and  plain  speaking;  and  the  effect  of  a  just  and  graceful  de 


iECT.  xxxiii.]  OF  A  DISCOURSE.  369 

livery  will,  in  every  part  of  a  subject,  be  found  of  high  importance 
for  commanding  attention,  and  enforcing  what  is  spoken. 

First,  let  us  consider  emphasis ;  by  this,  is  meant  a  stronger  and 
fuller  sound  of  voice,  by  which  we  distinguish  the  accented  syllable 
of  some  word,  on  whicn  we  design  to  lay  particular  stress,  and  to 
show  how  it  affects  the  rest  of  the  sentence.  Sometimes  the  em- 
phatic word  must  be  distinguished  by  a  particular  tone  of  voice,  as 
well  as  by  a  stronger  accent.  On  the  right  management  of  the  em- 
phasis, depend  the  whole  life  and  spirit  of  every  discourse.  If  no 
emphasis  be  placed  on  any  words,  not  only  is  discourse  rendered 
heavy  and  lifeless,  but  the  meaning  left  of"^n  ambiguous.  If  the 
emphasis  be  placed  wrong,  ve  pervert  and  c  nfound  the  meaning 
wholly.  To  give  a  common  instance;  such  a  simple  question  as 
this:  'Do  you  ride  to  town  to-day?'  is  capable  of  no  fewer  than 
four  different  acceptations,  according  as  the  emphasis  is  differently 
placed  on  the  words.  If  it  be  pronounced  thus ;  do  you  ride  to  town 
to-day  ?  the  answer  may  naturally  be,  No  :  I  send  my  servant  in  my 
stead.  If  thus;  Do  you  ride  to  town  to-day  ?  Answer,  No;  I  intend 
to  walk.  Do  you  ride  to  town  to-day?  No;  I  ride  out  into  the 
fields.  Do  you  ride  to  town  to-day?  No;  but  I  shall  to-morrow. 
In  like  manner,  in  solemn  discourse,  the  whole  force  and  beauty  ol 
an  expression  often  depend  on  the  accented  word;  and  we  may 
present  to  the  hearers  quite  different  views  of  the  same  sentiment, 
by  placing  the  emphasis  differently.  In  the  following  words  of  our 
Saviour,  observe  in  what  different  lights  the  thought  is  placed,  ac- 
cording as  the  words  are  pronounced, '  Judas,  betrayest  thou  the  Son 
of  Man  with  a  kiss?'  Betrayest  thou — makes  the  reproach  turn,  on 
the  infamy  of  treachery.  Betrayest  thou — makes  it  rest,  upon  Ju- 
das's  connexion  with  his  master.  Betrayest  thou  the  Son  of  Man — 
rests  it  upon  our  Saviour's  personal  character  and  eminence.  Be- 
trayest thou  the  Son  of  Man  with  a  kiss?  turns  it  upon  his  prosti- 
tuting the  signal  of  peace  and  friendship,  to  the  purpose  of  a  mark 
pf  destruction. 

In  order  to  acquire  the  proper  management  of  the  emphasis,  the 
great  rule,  and  indeed  the  only  rule  possible  to  be  given  is,  that  the 
speaker  study  to  attain  a  just  conception  of  the  force  and  spirit  ot 
those  sentiments  which  he  is  to  pronounce.  For,  to  lay  the  empha 
sis  with  exact  propriety,  is  a  constant  exercise  of  good  sense  and  at- 
tention. It  is  far  from  being  an  inconsiderable  attainment.  It  is 
one  of  the  greatest  trials  of  a  true  and  just  taste ;  and  must  arise 
from  feeling  delicately  ourselves,  and  from  judging  accurately,  of 
what  is  fittest  to  strike  the  feelings  of  others.  There  is  as  great  a 
difference  between  a  chapter  of  the  Bible,  or  any  other  piece  of 
plain  prose,  read  by  one  who  places  the  several  emphasis  every 
where  with  taste  and  judgment,  and  by  one  who  neglects  or  mis- 
takes them,  as  there  is  between  the  same  tune  played  by  the  most 
masterly  hand,  or  by  the  most  bungling  performer. 

In  all  prepared  discourses,  it  would  be  of  great  use,  if  they  were 
read  over  or  rehearsed  in  private,  with  this  particular  view,  to  search 

47 


370  PRONUNCIATION,  OR  DELIVERY  [lect.  xxxiti 

tor  the  proper  emphasis  before  they  were  pronounced  in  public, 
marking,  at  the  same  time,  with  a  pen,  the  emphatical   words  in 
every  sentence,  or  at  least  in  the  most  weighty  and  affecting  parts 
of  a  discourse,  and  fixing  them  well  in  memory.     Were  thisatten 
tion  oftener  bestowed,  were  this  part  of  pronunciation  studied  with 
more  exactness,  and  not  left  to  the  moment  of  delivery,  as  is  com 
monly  done,  public  speakers  would  find  their  care  abundantly  re 
paid,  by  the  remarkable  effects  which  it  would  produce  upon  their 
•udience.     Let  me  caution,  at  the  same  time,  against  one  error, 
that  of  multiplying  emphatical  words  too  much.    It  is  only  by  a  pru- 
dent reserve  in  the  use  of  them,  that  we  can  give  them  any  weight 
If  they  recur  too  often;  if  a  speaker  attempts  to  render  every  thing 
which  he  says  of  high  importance,  by  a  multitude  of  strong  empha 
sis,  we  soon  learn  to  pay  little  regard  to  them.     To  crowd  every 
sentence  with  emphatical  words,  is  like  crowding  all  the  pages  of  a 
book  with  italic  characters,  which,  as  to  the  effect,  is  just  the  same 
with  using  no  such  distinctions  at  all. 

Next  to  emphasis,  the  pauses  in  speaking  demand  attention 
These  are  of  two  kinds;  first,  emphatical  pauses;  and  next,  such  as 
mark  the  distinctions  of  sense.  An  emphatical  pause  is  made,  after 
something  has  been  said  of  peculiar  moment,  and  on  which  we  want 
to  fix  the  hearer's  attention.  Sometimes,  before  such  a  thing  is  said, 
we  usher  it  in  with  a  pause  of  this  nature.  Such  pauses  have  the 
same  effect,  as  a  strong  emphasis,  and  are  subject  to  the  same  rules; 
especially  to  the  caution  just  now  given,  of  not  repeating  them  too  fre- 
quently. For  as  they  excite  uncommon  attention,  and  of  course  raise 
expectation,  if  the  importance  of  the  matter  be  not  fully  answerable 
to  such  expectation,  they  occasion  disappointment  and  disgust. 
But  the  most  frequent  and  the  principal  use  of  the  pauses,  is  to  mark 
the  divisions  of  the  sense  ;  and  at  the  same  time  to  allow  the  speak- 
er to  draw  his  breath ;  and  the  proper  and  graceful  adjustment  of 
such  pauses,  is  one  of  the  most  nice  and  difficult  articles  in  delivery. 
In  all  public  speaking  the  management  of  the  breath  requires  a 
good  deal  of  care,  so  as  not  to  be  obliged  to  divide  words  from  one 
another,  which  have  so  intimate  a  connexion  that  they  ought  to  be 
pronounced  with  the  same  breath,  and  without  the  least  separation. 
Many  a  sentence  is  miserably  mangled,  and  the  force  of  the  empha 
sis  totally  lost,  by  divisions  being  made  in  the  wrong  place.  To 
tvoid  this,  every  one, while  he  is  speaking,  should  be  very  careful  to 
provide  a  full  supply  of  breath  for  what  he  is  to  utter.  It  is  a  great 
mistake  to  imagine,  that  the  breath  must  be  drawn  only  at  the  end 
of  a  period,  when  the  voice  is  allowed  to  fall.  It  may  easily  be 
gathered  at  the  intervals  of  the  period,  when  the  voice  is  only  sus- 
pended for  a  moment;  and  by  this  management,  one  may  have  al- 
ways a  sufficient  stock  for  carrying  on  the  longest  sentence,  with- 
out improper  interruptions. 

If  any  one,  in  public  speaking,  shall  have  formed  to  himself  a 
certain  melody  or  tune,  which  requires  rest  and  pauses  of  its  own, 
dist;nct  from  those  of  the  sense,  he  has,  undoubtedly,  contracted 
cne  of  the  worst  habits  into  which  a  public  speaker  can  fall.     It  is 


lect  xxxiii.]  OF  A  DISCOURSE.  371 

the  sense  which  should  always  rule  the  pauses  of  the  voice;  for 
wherever  there  is  any  sensible  suspension  of  the  voice,  the  hearer  is 
always  led  to  expect  somewhat  corresponding  in  the  meaning. 
Pauses  in  public  discourse,  must  be  formed  upon  the  manner  in 
which  we  utter  ourselves  in  ordinary,  sensible  conversation;  and 
not  upon  the  stiff,  artificial  manner, which  we  acquire  from  reading 
books  according  to  the  common  punctuation.  The  general  run  of 
punctuation  is  very  arbitrary;  often  capricious  and  false;  and  dic- 
tates an  uniformity  of  tone  in  the  pauses,  which  is  extremely  disa- 
greeable ;  for  we  are  to  observe,  that  to  render  pauses  graceful  and 
expressive,  they  must  not  only  be  made  in  the  right  place,  but  also 
accompanied  with  a  proper  tone  of  voice,  by  which  the  nature  of 
these  pauses  is  intimated;  much  more  than  by  the  length  of  them, 
which  can  never  be  exactly  measured.  Sometimes  it  is  only  a  slight 
and  simple  suspension  of  voice  that  is  proper;  sometimes  a  degree 
of  cadence  in  the  voice  is  required;  and  sometimes  that  peculiar 
tone  and  cadence,  which  denotes  the  sentence  finished.  In  all  these 
cases,  we  are  to  regulate  ourselves,  by  attending  to  the  manner  in 
which  nature  teaches  us  to  speak,  when  engaged  in  real  and  earnest 
discourse  with  others. 

When  we  are  reading  or  reciting  verse,  there  is  a  peculiar  diffi- 
culty in  making  the  pauses  justly.  The  difficulty  arises  from  the 
melody  of  the  verse,  which  dictates  to  the  ear  pauses  or  rests  of  its 
own  ;  and  to  adjust  and  compound  these  properly  with  the  pauses  of 
the  sense,  so  as  neither  to  hurt  the  ear,  nor  offend  the  understand- 
ing, is  so  very  nice  a  matter,  that  it  is  no  wonder  we  so  seldom 
meet  with  good  readers  of  poetry.  There  are  two  kinds  of  pauses 
that  belong  to  the  music  of  verse;  one  is,  the  pause  at  the  end  of 
the  line;  and  the  other,  the  csesural  pause  in  the  middle  of  it.  With 
regard  to  the  pause  at  the  end  of  the  line,  which  marks  that  strain 
or  verse  to  be  finished,  rhyme  renders  this  always  sensible,  and  in 
some  measure,  compels  us  to  observe  it  in  our  pronunciation.  In 
blank  verse,  where  there  is  a  greater  liberty  permitted  of  running 
the  lines  into  one  another,  sometimes  without  any  suspension  in  the 
sense,  it  has  been  made  a  question,  whether  in  reading  such  verse 
with  propriety,  any  regard  at  all  should  be  paid  to  the  close  of  a 
line?  On  the  stage,  where  the  appearance  of  speaking  in  verse  should 
always  be  avoided,  there  can,  I  think,  be  no  doubt,  that  the  close  of 
such  lines  as  make  no  pause  in  the  sense,  should  not  be  rendered 
perceptible  to  the  ear.  But  on  other  occasions,  this  were  improper 
for  what  is  the  use  of  melody,  or  for  what  end  has  the  poet  compos- 
ed in  verse,  if  in  reading  his  lines,  we  suppress  his  numbers;  and 
degrade  them,  by  our  pronunciation,  into  mere  prose?  We  ought, 
therefore,  certainly,  to  read  blank  verse  so  as  to  make  every  line 
sensible  to  the  ear.  At  the  same  time,  in  doing  so,  every  appeal 
ance  of  sing-song  and  tone  must  be  carefully  guarded  against.  The 
elose  of  the  line,  where  it  makes  no  pause  in  the  meaning,  ought  to 
be  marked,  not  by  such  a  tone  as  is  used  in  finishing  a  sentence;  but 
without  either  letting  the  voice  fall,  or  elevating  it,  it  should  be  mark- 


372  PRONUNCIATION,  OR  DELIVERY  [lect.  xxxiu 

ed  only  by  such  a  slight  suspension  of  sound,  as  may  distinguish 
tne  passage  from  one  line  to  another,  without  injuring  the  meaning 
The  other  kind  of  musical  pause,  is  that  which  falls  somewhere 
about  the  middle  of  the  verse,  and  divides  it  into  two  hem i sticks  : 
a  pause,  not  so  great  as  tbat  which  belongs  to  the  close  of  the  line, 
but  still  sensible  to  an  ordinary  ear.  This,  which  is  called  the  ccesu 
ral  pause,  in  the  French  heroic  verse,  falls  uniformly  in  the  middle 
of  the  line.  In  the  English,  it  may  fall  after  the  4th,  5th,  6th,  or 
7th  syllables  in  the  line,  and  no  other.  Where  the  verse  is  so  con- 
structed, that  this  caesural  pause  coincides  with  the  slightest  pause 
or  division  in  the  sense,  the  line  can  be  read  easily;  as  in  the  two 
first  verses  of  Mr.  Pope's  Messiah, 

Ye  nymphs  of  Solyma!  begin  the  song; 
To  heav'nly  themes,  sublimer  strains  belong. 

But  if  it  should  happen  that  words,  which  have  such  a  strict  and 
intimate  connexion,  as  not  to  bear  even  a  momentary  separation, 
are  divided  from  one  another  by  this  caesural  pause,  we  then  feel 
a  sort  of  struggle  between  the  sense  and  the  sound,  which  renders 
it  difficult  to  read  such  lines  gracetully.  The  rule  of  proper  pro- 
nunciation in  such  cases  is,  to  regard  only  the  pause  which  the 
sense  forms,  and  to  read  the  line  accordingly.  The  neglect  of  the 
caesural  pause,  may  make  the  lines  sound  somewhat  unharmonious- 
ly;  but  the  effect  would  be  much  worse,  if  the  sense  were  sacrific- 
ed to  the  sound.     For  instance,  in  the  following  line  of  Milton, 

What  in  me  is  dark, 

Illumine  ;  what  is  low,  raise  and  support. 

The  sense  clearly  dictates  the  pause  after  'illumine/  at  the  end 
of  the  third  syllable,  which,  in  reading,  ought  to  be  made  accord- 
ingly; though,  if  the  melody  only  were  to  be  regarded,  'illumine' 
should  be  connected  with  what  follows,  and  the  pause  not  made 
till  the  fourth  or  sixth  syllable.  So,  in  the  following  line  of  Mr 
Pope's  (Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot:) 

I  sit,  with  sad  civility  I  read. 

The  ear  plainly  points  out  the  caesural  pause  as  falling  after  'sad, 
the  4th  syllable.  But  it  would  be  very  bad  reading  to  make  any 
pause  there,  so  as  to  separate  'sad'  and  'civility.'  The  sense  ad- 
mits of  no  other  pause  than  after  the  second  syllable  '  sit,'  which 
therefore  must  be  the  only  pause  made  in  the  reading. 

I  proceed  next  to  treat  of  tones  in  pronunciation,  which  are  dif- 
ferent both  from  emphasis  and  pauses;  consisting  in  the  modulation 
of  the  voice,  the  notes  or  variations  of  sound  which  we  employ  in 
public  speaking.  How  much  of  the  propriety,  the  force  and  grace 
of  discourse,  must  depend  on  these,  will  appear  from  this  single 
consideration ;  that  to  almost  every  sentiment  we  utter,  more  espe- 
cially to  every  strong  emotion,  nature  hath  adapted  some  peculiar 
tone  of  voice;  insomuch,  that  he  who  should  tell  another  that  he 
was  very  angry,  or  much  grieved,  in  a  tone  which  did  not  suit 
such  emotions,  instead  of  being  believed,  would  be  laughed  at. 
Sympathy  is  one  of  the  most  powerful  principles  by  which  persua- 
sive discourse  works  its  effect.  The  speaker  endeavours  to  transfuse. 


lect.  xxxiii. ]  OF  A  DISCOURSE.  S73 

into  his  hearers  his  own  sentiments  and  emotions;  which  he  car 
never  be  successful  in  doing,  unless  he  utters  them  in  such  a  man 
ner  as  to  convince  the  hearers  that  he  feels  them.*  The  proper  ex- 
pression of  tones,  therefore,  deserves  to  be  attentively  studied  by 
every  one  who  would  be  a  successful  orator. 

The  greatest  and  most  material  instruction  which  can  be  given 
for  tins  purpose  is,  to  form  the  tones  of  public  speaking  upon  the 
tones  of  sensible  and  animated  conversation.  We  may  observe 
that  every  man,  when  he  is  much  in  earnest  in  common  discourse, 
when  he  is  engaged  in  speaking  on  some  subject  which  interests  him 
nearly,  has  an  eloquent  or  persuasive  tone  and  manner.  What  is 
the  reason  of  our  being  often  so  frigid  and  unpersuasive  in  public 
discourse,  but  our  departing  from  the  natural  tone  of  speaking,  and 
de'ivering  ourselves  in  an  affected,  artificial  manner?  Nothing  can 
be  more  absurd  than  to  imagine,  that  as  soon  as  one  mounts  a  pul- 
pit, or  rises  in  a  public  assembly,  he  is  instantly  to  lay  aside  tbe  voice 
with  which  he  expresses  himself  in  private ;  to  assume  a  new,  stu- 
died tone,  and  a  cadence  altogether  foreign  to  his  natural  manner. 
This  has  vitiated  all  delivery;  this  has  given  rise  to  cant  and  tedious 
monotony,  in  the  different  kinds  of  modern  public  speaking,  espe- 
cially in  tbe  pulpit.  Men  departed  from  nature  ;  and  sought  to  give 
a  beauty  or  force,  as  they  imagined,  to  their  discourse,  by  substitut- 
ing certain  studied  musical  tones,  in  the  room  of  the  genuine  ex- 
pressions of  sentiment,  which  the  voice  carries  in  natural  discourse. 
Let  every  public  speaker  guard  against  this  error.  Whether  he 
speak  in  a  private  room,  or  in  a  great  assembly,  let  him  remember 
that  he  still  speaks.  Follow  nature:  consider  how  she  teaches  you 
to  utter  any  sentiment  or  feeling  of  your  heart.  Imagine  a  subject 
of  debate  starting  in  conversation  among  grave  and  wise  men,  and 
yourself  bearing  a  share  in  it.  Think  after  what  manner,  with  what 
tones  and  inflexions  of  voice,  you  would  on  such  an  occasion  express 
yourself,  when  you  were  most  in  earnest,  and  sought  most  to  be  lis 
tened  to.  Carry  these  with  you  to  the  bar,  to  the  pulpit,  or  to  any 
publie  assembly;  let  these  be  the  foundation  of  your  manner  of 
pronouncing  there;  and  you  will  take  the  surest  method  of  render- 
ing your  delivery  both  agreeable  and  persuasive. 

I  have  said,  let  these  conversation  tones  be  the  foundation  of  public 
pronunciation ;  but  on  some  occasions,  solemn  public  speaking  re- 
quires them  to  be  exalted  beyond  the  strain  of  common  discourse. 
In  a  formal,  studied  oration,  the  elevation  of  the  style,  and  the  har- 

*  i  All  that  passes  in  the  mind  of  man  may  be  reduced  to  two  classes,  which  [  call 
ltas  and  emotions.  By  ideas,  I  mean  all  thoughts  which  rise,  and  pass  in  succession 
in  the  mind.  By  emotions,  all  exertions  of  the  mind  in  arranging,  combining,  and 
separating  its  ideas ;  as  well  as  all  the  effects  produced  on  the  mind  itself  by  those 
ideas ;  from  the  more  violent  agitation  of  the  passions,  to  the  calmer  feelings  produces' 
by  the  operation  of  the  intellect  and  the  fancy.  In  short,  thought  is  the  object  of  the 
one,  internal  feeling  of  the  other.  That  which  serves  to  express  the  former,  I  call  the 
language  of  ideas ;  and  the  latter,  the  language  of  emotions.  Words  are  the  signs  of 
the  one,  tones  of  the  other.  Without  the  use  of  these  two  sorts  of  language,  it  is  im- 
possible to  communicate  through  the  ear,  all  that  passes  in  the  mind  of  man.' 

Shekidan   on  the  Art  of  Reading 


374        PRONUNCIATION,  OR  DELIVERY     [lect.  xxxni 

morjy  of  the  sentences,  prompt,  almost  necessarily,  a  modulation  ol 
Voice  mor.'  ounded,  and  bordering  more  upon  music,  than  conver- 
sation admits.  This  gives  rise  to  what  is  called  the  declaiming  man- 
ner. But  though  this  mode  of  pronunciation  runs  considerably  be- 
yond ordinary  discourse,  yet  still  it  must  have,  for  its  basis,  the  natu- 
ral tones  of  grave  and  dignified  conversation.  I  must  observe,  at 
the  same  time,  that  the  constant  indulgence  of  a  declamatory  man- 
ner, is  not  favourable  either  to  good  composition,  or  good  delivery, 
and  is  in  hazard  of  betraying  public  speakers  into  that  monotony 
of  tone  and  cadence,  which  is  so  generally  complained  of.  Where- 
as, he  who  forms  the  general  run  of  his  delivery  upon  a  speaking 
manner  is  not  likely  ever  to  become  disagreeable  through  monoto- 
ny. He  will  have  the  same  natural  variety  in  his  tones,  which  a 
person  has  in  conversation.  Indeed,  the  perfection  of  delivery 
requires  both  these  different  manners,  that  of  speaking  with  live- 
liness and  ease,  and  that  of  declaiming  with  stateliness  and  dignity, 
to  be  possessed  by  one  man ;  and  to  be  employed  by  him,  accord- 
ing as  the  different  parts  of  his  discourse  require  either  the  one  or 
the  other.  This  is  a  perfection  which  is  not  attained  by  many,  the 
greatest  part  of  public  speakers  allowing  their  delivery  to  be  formed 
altogether  accidentally,  according  as  some  turn  of  voice  appears  to 
them  most  beautiful,  or  some  artificial  model  has  caught  their  fan- 
cy; and  acquiring,  by  this  means,  a  habit  of  pronunciation,  which 
they  can  never  vary.  But  the  capital  direction,  which  ought  never 
to  be  forgotten,  is,  to  copy  the  proper  tones  for  expressing  every 
sentiment  from  those  which  nature  dictates  to  us,  in  conversation 
with  others ;  to  speak  always  with  her  voice ;  and  not  to  form  to 
ourselves  a  fantastic  public  manner,  from  an  absurd  fancy  of  its  be- 
ing more  beautiful  than  a  natural  one.* 

It  now  remains  to  treat  of  gesture,  or  what  is  called  action  in  pub- 
lic discourse.  Some  nations  animate  their  words  in  common  con- 
versation, with  many  more  motions  of  the  body  than  others  do. 
The  French  and  the  Italians  are,  in  this  respect,  much  more  sprightly 
thanweare.  Butthere  is  no  nation,  hardly  any  person  so  phlegmatic, 
as  not  to  accompany  their  words  with  some  actions  and  gesticula- 
tions,on  all  occasions,  when  they  are  much  in  earnest.  Itistherefore 
unnatural  in  a  public  speaker,  it  is  inconsistent,  with  that  earnestnes^ 
and  seriousness  which  he  ought  to  show  in  all  affairs  of  moment,  to 
remain  quite  unmoved  in  his  outward  appearance ;  and  to  let  the 
words  drop  from  his  mouth,  without  any  expression  of  meaning,  or 
warmth  in  his  gesture. 

The  fundamental  rule,  rs  to  propriety  of  action,  is  undoubtedly 
the  same  with  what  I  gave  as  to  propriety  of  tone.     Attend  to  the 


*  '  Loquere,'  (says  an  author  of  the  16th  century,  who  has  written  a  Treatise  in  verse 
de  Gestu,  et  Voce  Oratoris,) 

'  Loquere;  hoc  vitium  commune,  loquatur 

Ut  nemo;  at  tensa  declamitet  omnia  voce. 
Tu  loquere  ;  ut  mos  est  hominum  ;  boat  &,  latrat  ille  f 
Ille  ululat ;  rudit  hie  ;  (fari  si  talia  digimm  est) 
Non  hominem  vox  ulla  sonat  ratione  loquentera.' 

Jo4nnes  Lucas,  de  Gestu  et  Voce,   lib.  II.  Paris,  1675. 


lect.  xxxiii.]  OF  A  DISCOURSE.  375 

looks  and  gestures,  in  which  earnestness,  indignation,  compassion, 
or  any  other  emotion,  discovers  itself  to  most  advantage  in  the  com 
mon  intercourse  of  men ;  and  let  these  be  your  model.  Some  of 
these  looks  and  gestures  are  common  to  all  men;  and  there  are  also 
ertain  peculiarities  of  manner  which  distinguish  every  individual. 
A  public  speaker  must  take  that  manner  which  is  most  natural  to 
himself.  For  it  is  here  just  as  in  tones.  It  is  not  the  business  of 
a  speaker  to  form  to  himself  a  certain  set  of  motions  and  gestures, 
which  he  thinks  most  becoming  and  agreeable,  and  to  practise 
these  in  public,  without  their  having  any  correspondence  to  the  man 
ner  which  is  natural  to  him  in  private.  His  gestures  and  motions 
ought  all  to  carry  that  kind  of  expression  which  nature  has  dictat- 
ed to  him;  and,  unless  this  be  the  case,  it  is  impossible,  by  means 
of  any  study,  to  avoid  their  appearing  stiff  and  forced. 

However,  although  nature  must  be  the  groundwork,  I  admit,  that 
there  is  room  in  this  matter  for  some  study  and  art.  For  many  per- 
sons are  naturally  ungraceful  in  the  motions  which  they  make;  and 
this  ungracefulness  might,  in  part  at  least,  be  reformed  by  applica- 
tion and  care.  The  study  of  action  in  public  speaking,  consists 
chiefly  in  guarding  against  awkward  and  disagreeable  motions  ;  and 
in  learning  to  perform  such  as  are  natural  to  the  speaker,  in  the 
most  becoming  manner.  For  this  end,  it  has  been  advised  by  wri- 
ters on  this  subject,  to  practise  before  a  mirror,  where  one  may  see 
and  judge  of  his  own  gestures.  But  I  am  afraid  persons  are  not 
always  the  best  judges  of  the  gracefulness  of  their  own  motions; 
and  one  may  declaim  long  enough  before  a  mirror,  without  correct- 
ing any  of  his  faults.  The  judgment  of  a  friend,  whose  good  taste 
they  can  trust,  will  be  found  of  much  greater  advantage  to  begin- 
ners, than  any  mirror  they  can  use.  With  regard  to  particular  rules 
concerning  action  and  gesticulation,  Quintilian  has  delivered  a 
great  many  in  the  last  chapter  of  the  11th  book  of  his  institutions; 
and  all  the  modern  writers  on  this  subject  have  clone  little  else  but 
translate  them.  I  am  not  of  opinion  that  such  rules,  delivered  either 
by  the  voice,  or  on  paper,  can  be  of  much  use,  unless  persons  saw 
them  exemplified  before  their  eyes.* 

*  The  few  following  hints  only  I  shall  adventure  to  throw  out,  in  case  they  may  be 
of  any  service.  When  speaking  in  public,  one  should  study  to  preserve  as  much  dig- 
nity as  possible  in  the  whole  attitude  of  the  body.  An  erect  posture  is  generally  to  bi 
chosen  ;  standing  firm,  so  as  to  have  the  fullest  and  freest  command  of  all  his  motions; 
any  incltnation  which  is  used,  should  be  forwards  towards  the  hearers,  which  is  a  na- 
tural expression  of  earnestness.  As  for  the  countenance,  the  chief  rule  is,  that  it  should 
correspond  with  the  nature  of  the  discourse  ;  and  when  no  particular  emotion  is  ex- 
pressed, a  serious  and  manly  look  is  always  the  best.  The  eyes  should  never  be  fixed 
"Jose  on  any  one  object,  but  move  easily  round  the  audience.  In  the  motions  made 
with  the  hands,  consist  the  chief  part  of  gesture  in  speaking.  The  ancients  condemned 
all  motions  performed  by  the  left  hand  alone;  but  I  am  not  sensible  that  these  are  al- 
ways offensive,  though  it  is  natural  for  the  right  hand  to  be  more  frequently  employed 
Warm  emotions  demand  the  motion  of  both  hands  corresponding  together.  But  whethei 
one  gesticulates  with  one  or  with  both  hands,  it  is  an  important  rule,  that  all  his  motions 
should  be  free  and  easy.  Narrow  and  straitened  movements  are  generally  ungra-^efu. 
lor  which  reason,  motions  made  with  the  hands,  are  directed  to  proceed  from  the  shoul- 
der, rather  than  from  the  elbow.     Perpendicular  movements  too  with  the  hands,  that 

3H 


S76  PRONUNCIATION,  OR  DELIVERY,  [lect.  xxxitz 

I  shall  only  add  further  on  this  head,  that  in  order  to  succeed  well 
in  delivery,  nothing  is  more  necessary  than  for  a  speaker  to  guard 
against  a  certain  flutter  of  spirits,  which  is  peculiarly  incident  to 
those  who  begin  to  speak  in  public.  He  must  endeavour,  above  all 
things,  to  be  collected,  and  master  of  himself.  For  this  end,  he 
will  find  nothing  of  more  use  to  him,  than  to  study  to  become 
wholly  engaged  in  his  subject;  to  be  possessed  with  a  sense  of  its 
importance  or  seriousness;  to  be  concerned  much  more  to  persuade 
than  to  please.  He  will  generally  please  most,  when  pleasing  is  not 
his  sole  nor  chief  aim.  This  is  the  only  rational  and  proper  method 
of  raising  one's  self  above  that  timid  and  bashful  regard  to  an  au- 
dience, which  is  so  ready  to  disconcert  a  speaker,  both  as  to  what 
he  is  to  say,  and  as  to  his  manner  of  saying  it. 

I  cannot  conclude,  without  an  earnest  admonition  to  guard  against 
all  affectation,  which  is  the  certain  ruin  of  good  delivery.  Let  your 
manner,  whatever  it  is,  be  your  own;  neither  imitated  from  an- 
other, nor  assumed  upon  some  imaginary  model,  which  is  unnatural 
to  you.  Whatever  is  native,  even  though  accompanied  with  seve- 
ral defects,  yet  is  likely  to  please:  because  it  shows  us  a  man;  be- 
cause it  has  the  appearance  of  coming  from  the  heart.  Whereas 
a  delivery,  attended  with  several  acquired  graces  and  beauties,  if  it 
be  not  easy  and  free,  if  it  betray  the  marks  of  art  and  affectation, 
never  fails  to  disgust.  To  attain  any  extremely  correct,  and  per- 
fectly graceful  delivery,  is  what  few  can  expect;  so  many  natural 
talents  being  requisite  to  concur  in  forming  it.  But  to  attain  what 
as  to  the  effect  is  very  little  inferior,  a  forcible  and  persuasive  man- 
ner, is  within  the  power  of  most  persons;  if  they  will  only  unlearn 
"alse  and  corrupt  habits  ;  if  they  will  allow  themselves  to  follow  na- 
ture, and  will  speak  in  public,  as  they  do  in  private,  when  they  speak 
in  earnest,  and  from  the  heart.  If  one  has  naturally  any  gross  de 
fects  in  his  voice  or  gestures,  he  begins  at  the  wrong  end,  if  he  at- 
tempts at  reforming  them  only  when  he  is  to  speak  in  public.  He 
should  begin  with  rectifying  them  in  his  private  manner  of  speak- 
ing; and  then  carry  to  the  public  the  right  habit  he  has  formed. 
For  when  a  speaker  is  engaged  in  a  public  discourse,  he  should  not 
be  then  employing  his  attention  about  his  manner,  or  thinking  of 
his  tones  and  his  gestures.  If  he  be  so  employed,  study  and  affecta- 
tion will  appear.  He  ought  to  be  then  quite  in  earnest;  wholly  oc- 
cupied with  his  subject  and  his  sentiments  ;  leaving  nature,  and 
previously  formed  habits,  to  prompt  and  suggest  his  manner  of  de- 
*  livery. 

is,  iii  the  straight  line  up  and  down,  which  Shakspeare  in  Hamlet  calls  'sawing  the  air 
with  the  hand/  are  seldom  good.  Oblique  motions  are,  in  general,  the  most  graceful. 
Too  sudden  and  nimble  motions  should  be  likewise  avoided.  Earnestness  can  be  fully 
expressed  without  them.     Shakspeare's  directions  on  this  head,  are  full  of  good  sense  ; 

use  all   gendy,'  says  he,  '  and  in  the  very  torrent  and  tempest  of  passion,  acquire  a 

finperance  that  may  give  it  smoothness.' 


(376  a  ) 


QUESTIONS. 


Having  treated  of  several  general 
neads  relating  to  eloquence,  to  what 
does  our  author  now  proceed  1  What 
evidence  have  we  -hat  Demosthenes 
laid  great  stress  on  this  ?  Of  what  is 
there  no  wonder ;  and  why  ?  To  what 
may  the  management  of  the  voice  and 
gesture,  in  public  speaking,  appear  to 
superficial  thinkers,  to  relate?  How 
does  it  appear  that  this  is  far  from  be- 
ing the  case  ?  Whenever  we  address 
ourselves  to  others  by  words,  what  is 
our  intention  ?  Of  the  tone  of  our  voice, 
our  looks  and  gestures,  what  is  here  ob- 
served ?  What  can  we  see  ?  What  ad- 
vantage has  the  signification  of  senti- 
ments, made  by  tones  and  gestures, 
above  that  made  by  words  ?  So  true  is 
this,  that  to  render  words  fully  signifi- 
cant, what  is  requisite ;  and  what  re- 
marks follow  ?  What  two  illustrations 
of  these  remarks  are  given  ?  Repeat 
them.  As  it  is  needless  to  say  any 
more,  in  order  to  show  the  high  impor- 
tance of  a  good  delivery,  to  what  does 
our  author  proceed  ?  What  are  the 
great  objects  which  every  public  speak- 
er will  naturally  have  in  his  eye,  in 
forming  his  delivery?  On  this  subject, 
what  are  worthy  of  being  consulted  ? 
In  order  to  be  fully  and  easily  under- 
stood, what  are  the  four  chief  requi- 
sites? What  must,  doubtless,  be  the 
first  attention  of  every  public  speaker ; 
and  what  must  he  endeavour  to  do? 
Of  this  power  of  voice,  what  is  remark- 
ed ?  What  three  pitches  has  every  man 
to  his  voice ;  and  define  them  ?  To 
imagine  what  is  a  great  mistake  ?  This 
is  confounding  what  two  different 
things?  How  is  this  fully  illustrated? 
As  long  as  you  keep  within  these 
bounds,  what  will  be  the  consequence? 
But  what  follows,  when  you  transgress 
them  ?  What,  also,  is  a  useful  rule  in 
order  to  be  well  heard?  How  do  we 
naturally,  and  mechanically,  utter  our 
words  ?  As  this  is  the  case,  in  common 
conversation,  in  what  will  it  also  hold  ? 
But  what  must  be  remembered?  In 
what  manner  does  this  extreme  offend  ? 
In  the  next  place,  of  distinctness  of  ar- 
ticulation, what  is  observed?  What  re- 
mark follows?  In  orler  to  effect  this, 
what  must  every  public  speaker  do  ? 
In  the  third  place,  in  order  to  articulate 
distinctly,  what  is  requisite  ;  and  why  ? 
What  need  scarcely  be  observed  ? 
What  must  render  every  discourse  in- 
feinid  and  fatiguing?  But  what  extreme 


is  much  more  common,  and  why  should 
it  be  guarded  against?  What  is  the 
first  thing  to  be  studied  by  all  who 
begin  to  speak  in  public;  and  of  it, 
what  is  observed?  In  what  manner, 
does  it  assist  the  voice ;  and  what  does 
it  enable  the  speaker  to  do?  What 
other  advantage  has  it ;  and  what  fol- 
lows ?  After  these  fundamental  atten- 
tions to  the  pitch  and  management  of 
the  voice,  &c.  what,  in  the  fourth 
place,  must  the  speaker  study  ?  For 
what  is  this  requisite  ?  How,  only,  can 
instruction  concerning  this  article,  be 
given?  But  here,  what  observations 
may  it  be  proper  to  make  ?  How  do 
many  persons  err  in  this  respect  ?  From 
what  mistaken  notion  does  this  arise  ? 
Whereas,  what  is  the  effect  of  this? 
To  treat  of  what,  does  our  author 
next  proceed  ?  Under  what  four  heads, 
may  these  be  comprised  ?  To  what  is 
to  be  said  concerning  them,  what  is, 
in  general,  premised  ?  How  is  this  illus- 
trated ?  By  emphasis,  what  is  meant  7 
How  must  the  emphatic  word  some- 
times be  distinguished  ?  On  the  right 
management  of  the  emphasis,  what 
depends?  How  is  this  illustrated?  What 
simple  rule  is  given ;  and  repeat  it  ?  Of 
the  same  thing,  in  solemn  discourse,  what 
is  observed ;  and  by  what  example  is 
this  illustrated  ?  In  order  to  acquire  the 
proper  management  of  the  emphasis, 
what  is  the  great  rule ;  and  why  ?  It  is 
far  from  what  ?  Of  what  is  it  one  of 
the  greatest  trials ;  and  from  what  must 
it  arise?  How  is  this  illustrated?  In 
all  prepared  discourses,  what  practice 
would  be  of  great  use  ?  Were  this  at- 
tention oftener  bestowed,  what  would 
be  the  consequence?  Against  what, 
are  speakers  at  the  same  time,  caution- 
ed ?  Why  is  this  caution  given ;  and 
what  remark  follows  ?  To  crowd  every 
page  with  emphatic  words,  is  like  what? 
Next  to  emphasis,  what  demand  atten- 
tion ?  These  are,  of  what  two  kinds  ? 
When  is  an  emphatic  pause  made  ? 
What  effect  have  such  pauses  ;  and  to 
what  are  they  subject  ?  For  what 
reason  ?  But  what  is  the  most  frequent 
and  principal  use  of  the  pauses;  and 
of  the  proper  and  graceful  adjustment 
of  such  pauses,  what  is  observed  ? 
Why  does  the  management  of  the 
breath,  in  all  public  speaking,  require  a 
good  deal  of  attention?  By  what,  is 
many  a  sentence  miserably  mangled 
and  the  force  of  the  empnasis  totally 


576  b 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  xxxm 


.ost?    In  what  manner  may  this  be 
avoided  ? 

What  is  a  great  mistake ;  anc  when 
may  it  be  easily  gathered?  What  is 
cine  of  the  worst  habits  into  which  a 
oublic  speaker  can  fall  ?  Why  should 
the  sense  always  rule  the  pauses  of  the 
voice?  Upon  what  must  pauses  in 
public  discourse  be  founded  ?  Of  the 
general  run  of  punctuation,  what  is  ob- 
served ;  and  why  ?  How  is  this  remark 
illustrated  1  In  all  these  cases,  how  are 
we  to  regulate  ourselves  ?  From  what 
does  the  difficulty  of  reading  poetry 
arise  ?  Why  is  it  no  wonder  that  we 
seldom  meet  with  good  readers  of 
poetry  ?  What  two  kinds  of  pauses  be- 
long to  the  music  of  verse  ?  With  re- 
srard  to  the  former,  what  is  observed  ? 
In  blank  verse,  what  has  been  made  a 
question  ?  Of  the  reading  of  this  verse 
on  the  stage,  what  is  observed?  But 
why  were  this  improper  on  other  oc- 
casions ?  What,  therefore,  follows  ?  At 
the  same  time,  what  should  be  guard- 
ed against?  How  is  this  illustrated? 
Of  the  other  kindsof  musical  pause  what 
is  observed?  In  French  heroic  verse, 
where  does  this  pause  fall ;  and  where 
may  it  fall  in  the  English  ?  When  can 
the  line  be  read  easily ;  and  what  ex- 
ample is  given?  When  do  we  feel  a  sort 
of  struggling  between  the  sense  and  the 
sound ;  and  what  is  its  effect  ?  In  such 
cases,  what  is  the  rule  for  pronuncia- 
tion? What  remark  follows;  and  by 
what  example  is  it  illustrated  ?  How  is 
this  principle  further  illustrated  from  a 
line  of  Mr.  Pope's?  To  what  does  our 
author  next  proceed ;  and  of  them  what 
is  observed  ?  From  what  consideration 
will  the  extent  to  which  the  propriety, 
force,  and  grace  of  discourse,  depend 
on  these,  appear  ?  How  is  this  remark 
illustrated  ?  What  is  the  greatest,  and 
most  material  instruction  which  can  be 
given  for  this  purpose?  When  has 
every  man  an  eloquent  or  persuasive 
tone  and  manner  ?  What  is  the  reason 
of  our  being  often  so  frigid  and  unper- 
suasive  in  public  discourse;  and  to  ima- 
gine what,  is  an  absurdity  ?  What  has 
been  the  effect  of  this?  How  is  this 
further  illustrated  ?  Of  these  conver- 
sational tones,  what  has  been  said  ?  In 
a  formal,  studied  oration,  to  what  does 
the  elevation  of  the  style,  and  the  har- 
nony  of  the  sentences,  almost  necessa- 
rily prompt?  To  Avhat  manner  does 
this  give  rise  ?  Thouch  this  mode  of 
pronunciation  was  considerably  beyond 
oi-'inary  discourse,  yet  what  must  it 


have  for  its  basis?  What,  at  the  same 
lime,  must  be  observed  ?  Whereas, 
what  follows  ?  In  tones,  what  variety 
will  he  have?  What  does  the  perfec- 
tion of  delivery  require?  Why  is  not 
this  perfection  acquired  by  many  ?  But 
what  is  the  direction  which  ought 
never  to  be  forgotten  ?  It  now  remains 
to  treat  of  what  ?  Of  some  nations,  what 
is  observed,  and  what  instances  are 
mentioned  ?  But  what  remark  follows  ? 
What  is,  therefore,  unnatural  and  in- 
consistent in  a  public  speaker?  As  to 
propriety  of  action,  what  is  the  funda- 
mental rule  ?  Of  these  look's  and  ges- 
tures, what  is  observed  ?  What  man- 
ner must  a  public  speaker  take,  and 
why  ?  What  kind  of  expression  o-j<rht 
his  gestures  and  motions  to  carry  ;  and 
unless  this  is  the  case,  what  will  be 
impossible?  Though  nature  must  be 
the  ground-work,  yet  what  is  admit- 
ted ;  and  why  ?  In  what  does  the  study 
of  action  in  public  speaking,  chiefly 
consist?  For  this  end,  what  has  been 
advised  by  writers  on  this  subject? 
But  of  what  is  our  author  afraid? 
What  will  be  found  of  much  greater 
advantage  ?  With  regard  to  particular 
rules,  concerning  action  and  gesticula- 
tion, what  is  observed  ?  On  this  head, 
what  further  is  added  ?  Above  all 
things,  what  must  he  endeavour  ?  For 
this  end,  what  will  he  find  of  the 
greatest  use  to  him?  When  will  he 
generally  please  most  ?  For  what  is 
this  the  only  rational  and  proper  me 
thod?  Without  what  admonition,  can- 
not our  author  conclude?  What  remark 
follows?  Why  is  whatever  is  native, 
likely  to  please?  Whereas,  what  deli- 
very never  fails  to  disgust  us  ?  W  hat 
can  few  expect;  and  why?  What  re- 
mark follows  ?  What  is  observed  of  one 
who  has  naturally  any  gross  defect  in 
his  voice  or  gestures  ?  How  should  he 
begin  ;  and  why  ?  If  he  be  so  employ 
ed,  what  will  be  the  consequence  ?  How 
ought  he  then  to  appear? 


ANALYSIS. 

The  delivery  of  a  discourse. 

1.  A  due  degree  of  loudness. 

2.  Distinctness  of  articulation. 

3.  Moderation  in  pronunciation. 

4.  Propriety  of  pronunciation. 

Requisites  for  -pleasing. 

1.  Attention  to  emphasis. 

2.  Attention  to  pause*. 
A.  Emphatical  pause. 
e.   Ca?sural  pause. 

3.  Attention  to  tones. 

4.  Attention  to  action. 

a.  All  affectation  to  be  guarded  o^ainsl 


(  377  ) 

LECTURE  XXXIV 

MEANS  OF  IMPROVING  IN  ELOQUENCE. 

I  have  now  treated  fully  of  the  different  kinds  of  public  speak- 
ing, of  the  composition,  and  of  the  delivery  of  a  discourse.  Before 
I  finish  this  subject,  it  may  be  of  use  to  suggest  some  things  con- 
cerning the  proper  means  of  improvement  in  the  art  of  public  spea- 
king, and  the  most  necessary  studies  for  that  purpose. 

To  be  an  eloquent  speaker,  in  the  proper  sense  of  the  word,  is 
far  from  being  either  a  common  or  an  easy  attainment.  Indeed,  to 
compose  a  florid  harangue  on  some  popular  topic,  and  to  deliver  it 
so  as  to  amuse  an  audience,  is  a  matter  not  very  difficult.  But  though 
some  praise  be  due  to  this,  yet  the  idea  which  I  have  endeavoured 
to  give  of  eloquence,  is  much  higher.  It  is  a  great  exertion  of  the 
human  powers.  It  is  the  art  of  being  persuasive  and  commanding; 
the  art,  not  of  pleasing  the  fancy  merely,  but  of  speaking  both  to 
the  understanding  and  to  the  heart;  of  interesting  the  hearers  in 
such  a  degree,  as  to  seize  and  carry  them  along  with  us;  and  to  leave 
them  with  a  deep  and  strong  impression  of  what  they  have  heard. 
How  many  talents,  natural  and  acquired,  must  concur  for  carrying 
this  to  perfection?  A  strong,  lively,  and  warm  imagination;  quick 
sensibility  of  heart,  joined  with  solid  judgment,  good  sense,  and  pre- 
sence of  mind;  all  improved  by  great  and  long  attention  to  style 
and  composition ;  and  supported  also  by  the  exterior,  yet  important 
qualifications  of  a  graceful  manner,  a  presence  not  ungainly,  and  a 
full  and  tunable  voice.  How  little  reason  to  wonder,  that  a  perfect 
and  accomplished  orator,  should  be  one  of  the  characters  that  is 
most  rarely  to  be  found  ? 

Let  us  not  despair,  however.  Between  mediocrity  and  perfec- 
tion, there  is  a  very  wide  interval.  There  are  many  intermediate 
spaces,  which  may  be  filled  up  with  honour;  and  the  more  rare 
and  difficult  that  complete  perfection  is,  the  greater  is  the  honour  of 
approaching  to  it,  though  we  do  not  fully  attain  it.  The  number 
of  orators  who  stand  in  the  highest  class  is,  perhaps,  smaller  than  the 
number  of  poets  who  are  foremost  in  poetic  fame;  but  the  study 
of  oratory  has  this  advantage  above  that  of  poetry,  that,  in  poetry, 
one  mus*.  be  an  eminently  good  performer,  or  he  is  not  supportable: 

Mediocribus  esse  poCtis 

Non  homines,  non  Dii,  non  concessere  columnae.* 

In  eloquence  this  does  not  hold.  There,  one  may  possess  a  mode- 
rate station  with  dignity.  Eloquence  admits  of  a  great  many  dif- 
ferent forms;  plain  and  simple,  as  well  as  high  and  pathetic;  and 
a  genius  that  cannot  reach  the  latter,  may  shine  with  much  repuca* 
tion  and  usefulness  in  the  former. 

*  For  God  and  man,  and  letter'd  post  denies, 

That  poets  ever  are  of  midd'jng  size.  Frajich. 

48 


378  MEANS  OF  IMPROVING        [lect.xxxiv 

Whether  nature  or  art  contribute  most  to  form  an  orator,  is  a  tri- 
fling inquiry.  In  all  attainments  whatever,  nature  must  be  the  prime 
agent.  She  mast  bestow  the  original  talents.  She  must  sow  the 
seeds ;  but  culture  is  requisite  for  bringing  these  seeds  to  perfec- 
tion. Nature  musf:  always  have  done  somewhat:  but  a  great  deal 
will  always  be  left  to  be  done  by  art.  This  is  certain,  that  study  and 
discipline  are  more  necessary  for  the  improvement  of  natural  genius 
in  oratory,  than  they  art,  in  poetry.  What  I  mean  is,  that  though 
poetry  be  capable  of  receiving  assistance  from  critical  art,  yet  a 
poet,  without  any  aid  from  art,  by  the  force  of  genius  alone,  can 
rise  higher  than  a  public  speaker  can  do,  who  has  never  given  atten- 
tion to  the  rules  of  style,  composition,  and  delivery.  Homer  form- 
ed himself;  Demosthenes  and  Cicero  were  formed  by  the  help  of 
much  labour,  and  of  many  assistances  derived  from  the  labour  of 
others.  After  these  preliminary  observations,  let  us  proceed  to 
the  main  design  of  this  lecture ;  to  treat  of  the  means  to  be  used 
for  improving  in  eloquence. 

In  the  first  place,  what  stands  highest  in  the  order  of  means,  is 
personal  character  and  disposition.  In  order  to  be  a  truly  eloquent 
or  persuasive  speaker,  nothing  is  more  necessary  than  to  be  a  vir- 
tuous man.  This  was  a  favourite  position  among  the  ancient  rhe- 
toricians : '  Non  posse  oratorem  esse  nisi  virum  bonum.'  To  find  any 
such  connexion  between  virtue  and  one  of  the  highest  liberal  arts, 
must  give  pleasure;  and  it  can,  I  think,  be  clearly  shown,  that  this 
is  not  a  mere  topic  of  declamation,  but  that  the  connexion  here  al- 
leged, is  undoubtedly  founded  in  truth  and  reason. 

For,  consider  first,  whether  any  thing  contribute  more  to  per- 
suasion, than  the  opinion  which  we  entertain  of  the  probity,  disin- 
terestedness, candour,  and  other  good  moral  qualities  of  the  person 
who  sndeavours  to  persuade?  These  give  weight  and  force  to 
every  thing  which  he  utters;  nay,  they  add  a  beauty  to  it;  they  dis- 
pose us  to  listen  with  attention  and  pleasure ;  and  create  a  secret 
partiality  in  favour  of  that  side  which  he  espouses.  Whereas,  if 
we  entertain  a  suspicion  of  craft  and  disingenuity,  of  a  corrupt,  or  a 
base  mind,  in  the  speaker,  his  eloquence  loses  all  its  real  effect.  It 
may  entertain  and  amuse  ;  but  it  is  viewed  as  artifice,  as  trick,  as 
the  play  only  of  speech;  and  viewed  in  this  light,  whom  can  it  per 
suade?  We  can  even  read  a  book  with  more  pleasure,  when  we 
think  favourably  of  its  author;  but  when  we  have  the  living  speak- 
er before  our  eyes,  addressing  us  personally  on  some  subject  of  im- 
portance, :he  opinion  we  entertain  of  his  character  must  have  a  much 
more  powerful  effect. 

But,  lest  it  should  be  said,  that  this  relates  only  to  the  character 
of  virtue,  which  one  may  maintain,  without  being  at  the  bottom  a 
truly  worthy  man,  I  must  observe  farther,  that  besides  the  weight 
which  it  adds  to  character,  real  virtue  operates  also,  in  other  ways, 
to  the  advantage  of  eloquence. 

First,  nothing  is  so  favourable  as  virtue  to  the  prosecution  of  ho- 
nourable studies.  It  prompts  a  generous  emulation  to  excel;  it 
inures  to  industry;  it  leaves  the  mind  vacant  and  free,  master  of  it- 


lect.  xxxiv.]  IN  ELOQUENCE.  379 

self,  disencumbered  of  those  bad  passions  and  disengaged  from  those 
mean  pursuits,  which  have  ever  been  found  the  greatest  enemies  to 
true  proficiency.  Quintilian  has  touched  this  consideration  very 
properly ; '  Quod  si  agrorum  nimia  cura,  et  sollicitior  rei  familiaris  di- 
ligentia,  et  venandi  voluptas,  et  dati  spectaculis  dies,  multum  studiis 
auferunt,  quid  putamus  facturas  cupiditatem,  avaritiam,  invidiam? 
Nihil  enim  est  tarn  occupatum,  tarn  multiforme,  tot  ac  tarn  variis  af- 
fectibus  concisum,  atque  laceratum,  quam  mala  ac  improba  mens. 
Quis  inter  haec,  literis,  aut  ulli  bonse  arti,  locus?  Non  hercle  magis 
quam  frugibus,  in  terra  sentibus  ac  rubis  occupata.'* 

But,  besides  this  consideration,  there  is  another  of  still  higher 
importance,  though  I  am  not  sure  of  its  being  attended  to  as  much 
as  it  deserves;  namely,  that  from  the  fountain  of  real  and  genuine 
virtue,  are  drawn  those  sentiments  which  will  ever  be  most  power- 
ful in  affecting  the  hearts  of  others.  Bad  as  the  world  is,  nothing 
has  so  great  and  universal  a  command  over  the  minds  of  men  as  vir- 
tue. No  kind  of  language  is  so  generally  understood,  and  so  pow- 
erfully felt,  as  the  native  language  of  worthy  and  virtuous  feelings. 
He  only,  therefore,  who  possesses  these  full  and  strong,  can  speak 
properly,  and  in  its  own  language,  to  the  heart.  On  all  great  sub- 
jects and  occasions,  there  is  a  dignity,  there  is  an  energy  in  noble 
sentiments,  which  is  overcoming  and  irresistible.  They  give  an  ar 
dour  and  a  flame  to  one's  discourse,  which  seldom  fails  to  kindle  a 
like  flame  in  those  who  hear;  and  which,  more  than  any  other 
cause,  bestows  on  eloquence  that  power,  for  which  it  is  famed,  of 
seizing  and  transporting  an  audience.  Here,  art  and  imitation  will 
not  avail.  An  assumed  character  conveys  none  of  this  power- 
ful warmth.  It  is  only  a  native  and  unaffected  glow  of  feeling, 
which  can  transmit  the  emotion  to  others.  Hence,  the  most  re 
nowned  orators,  such  as  Cicero  and  Demosthenes,  were  no  less  dis- 
tinguished for  some  of  the  high  virtues,  as  public  spirit  and  zeal 
for  their  country,  than  for  eloquence.  Beyond  doubt,  to  these  vir- 
tues their  eloquence  owed  much  of  its  effect;  and  those  orations  of 
theirs,  in  which  there  breathes  most  of  the  virtuous  and  magnani- 
mous spirit,  are  those  which  have  most  attracted  the  admiration  of 
ages. 

Nothing,  therefore,  is  more  necessary  for  those  who  would  extel 
in  any  of  the  higher  kinds  of  oratory,  than  to  cultivate  habits  of  the 
several  virtues,  and  to  refine  and  improve  all  their  moral  feelings. 
Whenever  these  become  dead,  or  carious,  they  may  be  assured,  that 
on  every  great  occasion,  they  will  speak  with  less  power,  and  less 
success.     The  sentiments  and  dispositions  particularly  requisite  for 

* '  If  the  management  of  an  estate,  if  anxious  attention  to  domestic  economy,  a 
passion  for  hunting,  or  whole  days  given  up  to  public  places  of  amusements,  consume 
so  much  time  that  is  due  to  study,  how  much  greater  waste  must  be  occasioned  by 
licentious  desires,  avarice,  or  envy  ?  Nothing  is  so  much  hurried  and  agitated,  so 
contradictory  to  itself,  or  so  violently  torn  and  shattered  by  conflicting  passions,  as 
a  bad  heart.  Amidst  the  distractions  which  it  produces,  what  room  is  left  for  the 
cultivation  of  letters,  or  the  pursuit  of  any  honourable  art  ?  No  more,  assuredly,  than 
there  Js  fot  the  growth  of  corn  in  a  field  that  is  overrun  with  thorns  and  brambles.' 


380  MEANS  OF  IMPROVING        [lect.  xxxiv 

them  to  cultivate,  are  ihe  following;:  The  love  of  justice  and  order 
ind  indignation  at  insolence  and  oppression;  the  love  of  honesty 
and  truth,  and  detestation  of  fraud,  meanness,  and  corruption ;  mag- 
nanimity of  spirit;  the  love,  of  liberty,  of  their  country,  and  the 
public;  zeal  for  all  great  and  noble  designs,  and  reverence  for  all 
worthy  and  heroic  characters.  A  cold  and  skeptical  turn  of  mind, 
is  extremely  adverse  to  eloquence ;  and  no  less  so,  is  that  cavilling 
disposition  which  takes  pleasure  in  depreciating  what  is  great,  and 
ridiculing  what  is  generally  admired.  Such  a  disposition  bespeak* 
one  not  very  likely  to  excel  in  any  thing  :  but  least  of  all  in  oratory 
A  true  orator  should  be  a  person  of  generous  sentiments,  of  warm 
feelings,  and  a  mind  turned  towards  the  admiration  of  all  those 
great  and  high  objects,  which  mankind  are  naturally  formed  to  ad- 
mire. Joined  with  the  manly  virtues,  he  should,  at  the  same  time, 
possess  strong  and  tender  sensibility  to  all  the  injuries,  distresses,  and 
sorrows  of  his  fellow-creatures;  a  heart  that  can  easily  relent;  that 
can  readily  enter  into  the  circumstances  of  others,  and  can  make 
their  case  his  own.  A  proper  mixture  of  courage,  and  of  modesty, 
must  also  be  studied  by  every  public  speaker.  Modesty  is  essen- 
tial; it  is  always  and  justly  supposed  to  be  a  concomitant  of  merit; 
and  every  appearance  of  it  is  winning  and  prepossessing.  But 
modesty  ought  not  to  run  into  excessive  timidity.  Every  public 
speaker  should  be  able  to  rest  somewhat  on  himself;  and  to  assume 
that  air,  not  of  self-complacency,  but  of  firmness,  which  bespeaks  a 
consciousness  of  his  being  thoroughly  persuaded  of  the  truth  or 
justice  of  what  he  delivers;  a  circumstance  of  no  small  consequence 
for  making  an  impression  on  those  who  hear. 

Next  to  moral  qualifications,  what  in  the  second  place  is  most  ne- 
cessary to  an  orator,  is  a  fund  of  knowledge.  Much  is  this  inculcat- 
ed by  Cicero  and  Quintilian:  'Quod  omnibus  disciplinis  et  artibus 
debet  esse  instructus  orator.'  By  which  they  mean,  that  he  ought 
to  have  what  we  call,  a  liberal  education ;  and  to  be  formed  by  a 
regular  study  of  philosophy,  and  the  polite  arts.  We  must  never 
forget  that, 

Scribendi  recte,  sapere  est  k.  principium  &l  fons. 

Good  sense  and  knowledge,  are  the  foundation  of  all  good  speaking. 
There  is  no  art  that  can  teach  one  to  be  eloquent,  in  any  sphere, 
without  a  sufficient  acquaintance  with  what  belongs  to  that  sphere; 
or  if  there  were  an  art  that  made  such  pretensions,  it  would  be 
mere  quackery,  like  the  pretensions  of  the  sophists  of  old  to  teach 
their  disciples  to  speak  for  and  against  every  subject;  and  would  be 
deservedly  exploded  by  all  wise  men.  Attention  to  style,  to  com- 
position, and  all  the  aits  of  speech,  can  only  assist  an  orator  in  set- 
ting off  to  advantage,  the  stcck  of  materials  which  he  possesses; 
out  the  stock,  the  materials  themselves,  must  be  brought  from  other 
quarters  than  from  rhetoric.  He  who  is  to  plead  at  the  bar,  must 
make  himself  thoroughly  master  of  the  knowledge  of  the  law;  of 
all  the  learning  and  experience  that  can  be  useful  in  his  profession, 
for  supporting  a  cause  or  convincing  a  judge      He  who  is  to  speak 


t.ect.  xxxiv.]  IN  ELOQUENCE.  381 

from  the  pulpit,  must  apply  himself  closely  to  the  study  of  aivin: 
ty,  of  practical  religion,  of  morals,  of  human  nature;  that  he  may 
be  rich  in  all  the  topics,  both  of  instruction  and  ofpersuasion.  He  who 
would  fit  himself  for  being  a  member  of  the  supreme  council  of  the 
nation,  or  of  any  public  assembly,  must  be  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  the  business  that  belongs  to  such  assembly;  he  must  study  the 
lorms  of  court,  the  course  of  procedure;  and  must  attend  minutely 
to  all  the  facts  that  may  be  the  subject  of  question  or  deliberation. 

Besides  the  knowledge  that  properly  belongs  to  his  profession, 
a  public  speaker,  if  ever  he  expects  to  be  eminent,  must  make 
himself  acquainted,  as  far  as  his  necessary  occupations  allow  with 
the  general  circle  of  polite  literature.  The  study  of  poetry  may  be 
useful  to  him,  on  many  occasions,  for  embellishing  his  style,  for 
suggesting  lively  images,  or  agreeable  allusions.  T'  ie  study  of  his- 
tory maybe  still  more  useful  to  him ;  as  the  knowledge  of  facts, 
of  eminent  characters,  and  of  the  course  of  human  affairs,  finds  place 
on  many  occasions.*  There  are  few  great  occasions  of  public  speak- 
ing in  which  one  will  not  derive  assistance  from  cultivated  taste,  and 
extensive  knowledge.  They  will  often  yield  him  materials  for  pro- 
per ornament;  sometimes  for  argument  and  real  use.  A  deficiency 
of  knowledge,  even  in  subjects  that  belong  not  directly  to  his  own 
profession,  will  expose  him  to  many  disadvantages,  and  give  better 
qualified  rivals  a  great  superiority  over  him. 

Allow  me  to  recommend,  in  the  third  place,  not  only  the  attain- 
ment of  useful  knowledge,  but  a  habit  of  application  and  industry. 
Without  this,  it  is  impossible  to  excel  in  any  thing.  We  must  not 
imagine,  that  it  is  by  a  sort  of  mushroom  growth,  that  one  can  rise 
to  be  a  distinguished  pleader,  or  preacher,  or  speaker  in  any  assem- 
bly. It  is  not  by  starts  of  application,  or  by  a  few  years  prepara- 
tion of  study  afterwards  discontinued,  that  eminence  can  be  attain- 
ed. No ;  it  can  be  attained  only  by  means  of  regular  industry,  grown 
up  into  a  habit,  and  ready  to  be  exerted  on  every  occasion  that 
calls  for  industry.  This  is  the  fixed  law  of  our  nature ;  and  he  must 
have  a  ver}'  high  opinion  of  his  own  genius  indeed,  that  can  believe 
himself  an  exception  to  it.  A  very  wise  law  of  our  nature  it  is; 
for  industry  is,  in  truth,  the  great  'condimentum,'  the  seasoning  of 
every  pleasure;  without  which  life  is  doomed  to  languish.  No- 
thing is  so  gre-U  an  enemy  both  to  honourable  attainments,  and  to  the 
real,  to  the  bn.sk,  and  spirited  enjoyment  of  life,  as  that  relaxed 
state  of  mind  which  arises  from  indolence  and  dissipation.  One 
•-.hat  is  destined  to  excel  in  any  art,  especially  in  the  arts  of  speak- 
In0"  and  writing,  will  be  known  by  this  more  than  by  any  othe. 
mark  whatever,  an  enthusiasm  for  that  art;  an  enthusiasm,  which 

*  'Imprimis  veto,  abundare  debet  orator  exemplorum  copia,  cum  veterum,  turn 
rtiam  novorum  ;  adeo  ut  non  modo  quae  couscripta  sunt  historiis,  aut  Sermonibus  velm 
oer  manus  tradita,  quseque  quotidie  aguntur,  debeat  nosse ;  veriirn  ne  ea  quidem  quae 
•  clarioribus  poetis  sunt  licta  r.egligere.' 

Quint.  1.  xii.  cap.  4. 
o  1 


382  MEANS  OF  IMPROVING         [lect.  xxxiv 

firing  his  mind  with  the  object  he  has  in  view,  will  dispose  him  to 
relish  every  labour  which  the  means  require.  It  was  this  that  cha 
racterized  the  great  men  of  antiquity ;  it  is  this,  which  mustdistin 
guish  the  moderns  who  would  tread  in  their  steps.  This  honoura- 
ble enthusiasm,  it  is  highly  necessary  for  such  as  are  studying  ora- 
tory to  cultivate.     If  youth  wants  it,  manhood  will  flag  miserably. 

In  the  fourth  place,  attention  to  the  best  models  will  contribute 
greatly  towards  improvement.  Every  one  who  speaks,  or  writes, 
should,  indeed,  endeavour  to  have  somewhat  that  is  his  own,  tha..  is 
peculiar  to  himself,  and  that  characterizes  his  composition  and  style. 
Slavish  imitation  depresses  genius,  or  rather  betrays  the  want  of  it. 
But  withal,  there  is  no  genius  so  original,  but  may  be  profited  and 
assisted  by  the  aid  of  proper  examples,  in  style,  composition,  and 
delivery.  They  always  open  some  new  ideas;  they  serve  to  enlarge 
and  correct  our  own.  They  quicken  the  current  of  thought,  and 
excite  emulation. 

Much,  indeed,  will  depend  on  the  right  choice  of  models  which 
we  purpose  to  imitate;  and  supposing  them  rightly  chosen,  a  farther 
care  is  requisite,  of  not  being  seduced  by  a  blind,  universal  admira- 
tion. For,  'decipit  exemplar,  vitiis  imitabile.'  Even  in  the  most 
finished  models  we  can  select,  it  must  not  be  forgotten,  that  there 
•ire  always  some  things  improper  for  imitation.  We  should  study 
to  acquire  a  just  conception  of  the  peculiar  characteristic  beauties  of 
any  writer,  or  public  speaker,  and  imitate  these  only.  One  ought 
never  to  attach  himself  too  closely  to  any  single  model ;  for  he  who 
does  so,  is  almost  sure  of  being  seduced  into  a  faulty  and  affected 
imitation.  His  business  should  be,  to  draw  from  several  the  proper 
ideas  of  perfection.  Living  examples  of  public  speaking,  in  any 
kind,  it  will  not  be  expected  that  I  should  here  point  out.  As  to 
the  writers,  ancient  and  modern,  from  whom  benefit  may  be  deriv- 
ed in  forming  composition  and  style,  I  have  spoken  so  much  of 
them  in  former  lectures,  that  it  is  needless  to  repeat  what  I  have  said 
of  their  virtues  and  defects.  I  own  it  is  to  be  regretted,  that  the 
English  language,  in  which  there  is  much  good  writing,  furnishes 
us,  however,  with  but  very  few  recorded  examples  of  eloquent  pub- 
lic speaking.  Among  the  French  there  are  more.  Saurin,  Bour- 
daloue,  Flechier,  Massillon,  particularly  the  last,  are  eminent  for 
the  eloquence  of  the  pulpit.  But  the  most  nervous  and  sublime  ot 
all  their  orators  is  Bossuet,  the  famous  Bishop  of  Meaux;  in  whose 
Oraisons  Funebres,  there  is  a  high  spirit  of  oratory.*  Some  of 
Fontenelle's  harangues  to  the  French  Academy,  are  elegant  and 
agreeable.  And  at  the  bar,  the  printed  pleadings  of  Cochin  and 
D'Aguesseau,  are  highly  extolled  by  the  late  French  critics. 

There  is  one  observation  which  it  is  of  importance  to  make. 

*  The  criticism  which  Mr.  Crevier,  author  of  Rhetorique  Franchise,  passes  upon  the** 
writers  whom  I  have  named,  is,  'Bossuet  est  grande,  mais  inegal ;  Flechier  est  plus 
egal,  mais  moins  eleve,  81  souvent  trop  fleuri :  Bourdaloue  est  solide  &.  judiceux,  mais 
&  neglige  les  graces  legeics:  Massillon  est  plus  riche  en  images,  mais  moins  f„tt  e« 
raisonnement.  Je  souhaite  done,  que  l'orateur  ne  se  contente  dans  V  imitation  d'un  se  1 
4«  'os  modcles,  mais  qu'il  tache  de  reunir  en  lui  toutes  leurs  difierentes  vertus.' 

Vol.  11.  chap,  derniere 


lect.  xxxiv.]  IN  ELOQUENCE.  383 

concerning  imitation  of  the  style  of  any  favourite  author,  when 
we  would  carry  his  style  into  public  speaking.  We  must  at- 
tend to  a  very  material  distinction,  between  written  and  spoken 
language.  These  are,  in  truth,  two  different  manners  of  com- 
municating ideas.  A  book  that  is  to  be  read,  requires  one  sort 
of  style:  a  man  that  is  to  speak,  must  use  another.  In  books 
we  look  for  correctness,  precision,  all  redundancies  pruned,  ah 
repetitions  avoided,  language  completely  polished.  Speaking  ad- 
mits a  more  easy,  copious  style,  and  less  fettered  by  rule;  repe- 
titions may  often  be  necessary,  parentheses  may  sometimes  be 
graceful,  the  same  thought  must  often  be  placed  in  different  views; 
as  the  hearers  can  catch  it  only  from  the  mouth  of  the  speaker, 
and  have  not  the  advantage,  as  in  reading  a  book,  of  turning  back 
again,  and  of  dwelling  on  what  they  do  not  fully  comprehend. 
Hence  the  style  of  many  good  authors,  would  appear  stiff,  affected, 
and  even  obscure,  if,  by  too  close  an  imitation,  we  should  transfer 
it  to  a  popular  oration.  How  awkward,  for  example,  would  Lord 
Shaftesbury's  sentences  sound  in  the  mouth  of  a  public  speaker? 
Some  kinds  of  public  discourse,  it  is  true,  such  as  that  of  the 
pulpit,  where  more  exact  preparation,  and  more  studied  style  are 
admitted,  would  bear  such  a  manner  better  than  others,  which 
are  expected  to  approach  more  to  extemporaneous  speaking.  But 
still  there  is,  in  general,  so  much  difference  between  speaking,  and 
composition  designed  only  to  be  read,  as  should  guard  us  against  a 
close  and  injudicious  imitation. 

Some  authors  there  are,  wnose  manner  of  writing  approaches 
nearer  to  the  style  of  speaking  than  others;  and  who,  therefore, 
can  be  imitated  with  more  safety.  In  this  class,  among  the  English 
authors,  are  Dean  Swift,  and  Lord  Bolingbroke.  The  Dean, 
throughout  all  his  writings,  in  the  midst  of  much  correctness  main- 
tains the  easy  natural  manner  of  an  unaffected  speaker;  and  this 
is  one  of  his  chief  excellencies.  Lord  Bolingbroke's  style  is  more 
splendid,  and  more  declamatory  than  Dean  Swift's  ;  but  still  it  is  the 
style  of  one  who  speaks,  or  rather  who  harangues.  Indeed,  all 
his  political  writings  (for  it  is  to  them  only,  and  not  to  his  philo- 
sophical ones,  that  this  observation  can  be  applied,)  carry  much 
more  the  appearance  of  one  declaiming  with  warmth  in  a  great 
assembly,  than  of  one  writing  in  a  closet,  in  order  to  be  read  by 
others.  They  have  all  the  copiousness,  the  fervour,  the  inculcating 
method  that  is  allowable  and  graceful  in  an  orator ;  perhaps  too 
much  of  it  for  a  writer:  and  it  is  to  be  regretted,  as  I  have  formerly 
observed,  that  the  matter  contained  in  them,  should  have  been  sc 
trivial  or  so  false  ;  for,  from  the  manner  and  style,  considerable  ad- 
vantage might  be  reaped. 

In  the  fifth  place,  besides  attention  to  the  best  models,  freq-uent 
exercise  both  in  composing  and  speaking,  will  be  admitted  to  be  a 
necessary  mean  of  improvement.  That  sort  of  composition  is, 
doubtless,  most  useful  which  relates  to  the  profession,  or  kind 
of  public  speaking,  to  which  persons  addict  themselves.  This, 
they  should  keep  ever  in  their  eye,  and  be  gradually  inuring  them- 


A84  MEANS  OF  IMPROVING         [lect.  xxxiv 

selves  to  it.  But  let  me  also  advise  them,  not  to  allow  themselves 
;n  negligent  composition  of  any  kind.  He  who  has  it  for  his  aim 
to  write  or  to  speak  correctly,  should,  in  the  most  trivial  kind  of 
composition,  in  writing  a  letter,  nay,  even  in  common  discourse, 
study  to  acquit  himself  with  propriety.  I  do  not  at  all  mean,  that 
he  is  never  to  write,  or  to  speak  a  word,  hut  in  elaborate  and  arti- 
hcial  language.  This  would  form  him  to  a  stiffness  and  affectation, 
worse,  by  ten  thousand  degrees,  than  the  greatest  negligence.  But 
it  is  to  be  observed,  that  there  is,  in  every  thing,  a  manner  which 
is  becoming,  and  has  propriety;  and  opposite  to  it,  there  is  a 
clumsy  and  faulty  performance  of  the  same  thing.  The  becom- 
ing manner  is  very  often  the  most  light,  and  seemingly  careless 
manner;  but  it  requires  taste  and  attention  to  seize  the  just  idea 
of  it.  That  idea,  when  acquired,  we  should  keep  in  our  eye,  and 
form  upon  it  whatever  we  write  or  say. 

Exercises  of  speaking  have  always  been  recommended  to  stu- 
dents, in  order  that  they  may  prepare  themselves  for  speaking 
in  public,  and  on  real  business.  The  meetings,  or  societies,  into 
which  they  sometimes  form  themselves  for  this  purpose,  are  lau- 
dable institutions;  and,  under  proper  conduct,  may  serve  many 
valuable  purposes.  They  are  favourable  to  knowledge  and  study, 
by  giving  occasion  to  inquiries,  concerning  those  subjects  which 
are  made  the  ground  of  discussion.  They  produce  emulation; 
and  gradually  inure  those  who  are  concerned  in  them,  to  some- 
what that  resembles  a  public  assembly.  They  accustom  them  to 
know  their  own  powers,  and  to  acquire  a  command  of  themselves 
in  speaking;  and  what  is,  perhaps,  the  greatest  advantage  of  all, 
they  give  them  a  facility  and  fluency  of  expression,  and  assist  them 
in  procuring  that  "  Copia  verborum,"  which  can  be  acquired  by 
no  other  means  but  frequent  exercise  in  speaking. 

But  the  meetings  which  I  have  now  in  my  eye,  are  to  be  under- 
stood of  those  academical  associations,  where  a  moderate  number 
of  young  gentlemen,  who  are  carrying  on  their  studies,  and  are 
connected  by  some  affinity  in  the  future  pursuits  which  they  have 
in  view,  assemble  privately,  in  order  to  improve  one  another,  and 
to  prepare  themselves  for  those  public  exhibitions  which  may 
afterwards  fall  to  their  lot.  As  for  those  public  and  promiscuous 
societies,  in  which  multitudes  are  brought  together,  who  are  often 
of  low  stations  and  occupations,  who  are  joined  by  no  common 
bond  of  union,  except  an  absurd  rage  for  public  speaking,  and  have 
no  other  object  in  view,  but  to  make  a  show  of  their  supposed 
talents,  they  are  institutions  not  merely  of  an  useless,  but  of  an 
hurtful  nature.  They  are  in  great  hazard  of  proving  seminaries  of 
licentiousness,  petulance,  faction,  and  folly.  They  mislead  those 
who,  in  their  own  callings,  might  be  useful  members  of  society, 
into  fantastic  plans  of  making  a  figure  on  subjects,  which  divert 
their  attention  from  their  proper  business,  and  are  widely  remote 
from  their  sphere  in  life. 

Even  the  allowable  meetings  into  which  students  of  oratory 
form   themselves,  stand  in  need  of  direction,  in  order  to  render 


tECT.  xxxiv.J  IN  ELOQUENCE.  38.'. 

them  useful.  If  their  subjects  of  discourse  be  improperly  cho 
sen;  if  they  maintain  extravagant  or  indecent  topics;  if  they 
indulge  themselves  in  loose  and  flimsy  declamation,  which  has 
no  foundation  in  good  sense  ;  or  accustom  themselves  to  speak 
pertly  on  all  subjects  without  due  preparation,  they  may  improve 
one  another  in  petulance,  but  in  no  other  thing ;  and  will  infal- 
libly forn\  themselves  to  a  very  faulty  and  vicious  taste  in  speaking. 
I  would,  therefore,  advise  all  who  are  members  of  such  societies, 
in  the  first  place,  to  attend  to  the  choice  of  their  subjects  ;  that 
they  be  useful  and  manly,  either  formed  on  the  course  of  their  studies, 
or  on  something  that  has  relation  to  morals  and  taste,  to  action  and 
life.  In  the  second  place,  I  would  advise  them  to  be  temperate 
in  the  practice  of  speaking ;  not  to  speak  too  often,  nor  on  subjects 
where  they  are  ignorant  or  unripe;  but  only,  when  they  have 
proper  materials  for  a  discourse,  and  have  digested  and  thought 
of  the  subject  befcehand.  In  the  third  place,  when  they  do 
speak,  they  should  study  always  to  keep  good  sense  and  persua- 
sion in  view,  rather  than  an  ostentation  of  eloquence ;  and  for  this 
end  I  would,  in  the  fourth  place,  repeat  the  advice  which  I  gave  in 
a  former  lecture,  that  they  should  always  choose  that  side  oftheques- 
tion  to  which,  in  their  own  judgment,  they  are  most  inclined,  as  the 
right  and  the  true  side ;  and  defend  it  by  such  arguments  as  seem  to 
them  most  solid.  By  these  means,  they  will  take  the  best  method 
of  forming  themselves  gradually  to  a  manly,  correct,  and  persuasive 
manner  of  speaking. 

It  now  only  remains  to  inquire,  of  what  use  may  the  study 
of  critical  and  rhetorical  writers  be,  for  improving  one  in  the  prac- 
tice of  eloquence?  These  are  certainly  not  to  be  neglected  ; 
and  yet  I  dare  not  say  that  much  is  to  be  expected  from  them. 
For  professed  writers  on  public  speaking,  we  must  look  chiefly 
among  the  ancients.  In  modern  times,  for  reasons  which  were  be- 
fore given,  popular  eloquence,  as  an  art,  has  never  been  very  much 
the  object  of  study;  it  has  not  the  same  powerful  effects  among  us 
that  it  had  in  more  democratical  states  ;  and  therefore  has  not  been 
cultivated  with  the  same  care.  Among  the  moderns,  though  there 
has  been  a  great  deal  of  good  criticism  on  the  different  kinds  of 
writing,  yet  much  has  not  been  attempted  on  the  subject  of  elo- 
quence, or  publie  discourse;  and  what  has  been  given  us  of  that  kind, 
has  been  drawn  mostly  from  the  ancients.  Such  a  writer  as  Joannes 
GerardusVossius,  who  has  gathered  into  one  heap  of  ponderous  lum- 
ber,all  the  trifling,  as  well  as  the  useful  things,  vhatareto  be  found  in 
the  Greek  and  Roman  writers,  is  enough  to  disgust  one  with  the 
study  of  eloquence.  Among  the  French,  there  has  been  more  at- 
tempted, on  this  subject,  than  among  the  English.  The  Bishop  of 
Cambray's  writings  on  eloquence,  I  before  mentioned  with  honour; 
Rollin. Batteux,Crevier,Gibert,  and  several  other  Frenchcriticsjhave 
ilso  written  on  oratory;  butthoughsome  of  them  may  be  useful,  none 
of  them  are  so  considerable  as  to  deserve  particular  recommendation. 

It  is  to  the  original  ancient  writers  that  we  must  chiefly  have  re- 

49 


336  MEANS  OF  IMPROVING,&c.       [lect.  xxxiv 

;ourse;  and  it  is  a  reproach  to  any  one,  whose  profession  calls  him 
to  speak  in  public,  to  be  unacquainted  with  them.  In  all  the  an- 
ient rhetorical  writers,  there  is,  indeed,  this  defect,  that  they  are 
loo  systematical,  as  I  formerly  showed ;  they  aim  at  doing  too  much ; 
at  reducing  rhetoric  to  a  complete  and  perfect  art,  which  may  even 
supply  invention  with  materials  on  every  subject ;  insomuch,  that 
one  would  imagine  they  expected  to  form  an  orator  by  .rule,  in  as 
mechanical  a  manner  as  one  would  form  a  carpenter.  Whereas,  all 
that  can,  in  truth,  be  done,  is  to  give  openings  for  assisting  and 
enlightening  taste,  and  for  pointing  out  to  genius  the  course  it  ought 
to  hold. 

Aristotle  laid  the  foundation  for  all  that  was  afterwards  written  on 
the  subject.  That  amazing  and  comprehensive  genius,  which  does 
honour  to  human  nature,  and  which  gave  light  unto  so  many  differ- 
ent sciences,  has  investigated  the  principles  of  rhetoric  with  great 
penetration.  Aristotle  appears  to  have  been  the  first  who  took  rhe- 
toric out  of  the  hands  of  sophists,  and  introduced  reasoning  and 
good  sense  into  the  art.  Some  of  the  profoundest  things  which 
have  been  written  on  the  passions  and  manners  of  men,  are  to  be 
found  in  his  Treatise  on  Rhetoric  ;  though  in  this,  as  in  all  his  wri- 
tings, his  great  brevity  often  renders  him  obscure.  Succeeding 
Greek  rhetoricians,  most  of  whom  are  now  lost,  improved  on  the 
foundation  which  Aristotle  had  laid.  Two  of  them  still  remain, 
Demetrius  Phalereus,  and  Dionysius  of  Halicarnassus;  both  write 
on  the  construction  of  sentences,  and  deserve  to  be  perused ;  espe- 
cially Dionysius,  who  is  a  very  accurate  and  judicious  critic. 

I  need  scarcely  recommend  the  rhetorical  writings  of  Cicero. 
Whatever,  on  the  subject  of  eloquence,  comes  from  so  great  an  ora- 
tor, must  be  worthy  of  attention.  His  most  considerable  work  or. 
that  subject  is  that  De  Oratore,  in  three  books.  None  of  Cicero's 
writings  are  more  highly  finished  than  this  treatise.  The  dialogue 
is  polite;  the  characters  well  supported,  and  the  conduct  of  the 
whole  is  beautiful  and  agreeable.  It  is,  indeed,  full  of  digressions, 
and  his  rules  and  observations  may  be  thought  sometimes  too  vague 
and  general.  Useful  things,  however,  may  be  learned  from  it;  and 
it  is  no  small  benefit  to  be  made  acquainted  with  Cicero's  own  idea 
of  eloquence.  The  'Orator  ad  M.  Brutum,'  is  also  a  considerable 
treatise:  and,  in  general,  throughout  Cicero's  rhetorical  works  there 
run  those  high  and  sublime  ideas  of  eloquence,  which  are  fitted  both 
for  forming  a  just  taste,  and  for  creating  that  enthusiasm  for  the  art, 
which  is  of  the  greatest  consequence  for  excelling  in  it. 

But  of  all  the  ancient  writers  on  the  subject  of  oratory,  the  most 
instructive,  and  most  useful,  is  Quintilian.  I  know  few  books  which 
abound  more  with  good  sense,  and  discover  a  greater  degree  of 
just  and  accurate  taste,  than  Quintilian's  institutions.  Almost  all  the 
principles  of  good  criticism  are  to  be  found  in  them.  He  has  digest- 
ed into  excellent  order  all  the  ancient  ideas  concerning  rhetoric; 
and  is,  at  the  same  time,  himself  an  eloquent  writer.  Though 
some  parts  of  his  work  contain  too  much  of  the  technical  and  arti- 
ficial system  then  in  vogue,  and  for  that  reason  may  be  dry  and  te 


LECT.  XXXIV.] 


QUESTIONS. 


3S 


dious,  yet  I  would  not  advise  the  omitting  to  read  any  part  of  his 
institutions.  To  pleaders  at  the  bar,  even  these  technical  parts  maj 
prove  of  much  use.  Seldom  has  any  person,  of  more  sound  and 
distinct  judgment  than  Quintilian,  applied  himself  to  the  study  of  tlu 
art  of  oratory. 


Q,UESTIOtfS. 


Of  what  has  our  author  now  fully  I 
treated ;  but  before  finishing  this  sub- 
ject, what  suggestions  may  be  of  use  ? 
To  be  an  eloqunt  speaker,  is  far  from 
what"?  What,  however,  is  a  matter 
not  very  difficult  ?  Of  this,  what  is  ob- 
served? What  is  the  idea  which  our 
author  has  endeavoured  to  give  of  elo- 
quence ?  What  natural  and  acquired 
talents  must  concur  for  carrying  this  to 
perfection  ?  About  what,  then,  is  there 
little  reason  to  wonder?  Why  should 
we  not,  however,  despair  ?  Of  the 
number  of  orators,  of  the  highest  class, 
what  is  here  observed  ?■  What  advan- 
tage has  the  study  of  oratory  above  that 
of  poetry  ?  In  eloquence,  what  station 
may  one  possess  with  dignity;  and 
what  does  eloquence  admit  ?  What  is  a 
trifling  inquiry  1  What  parts  ^o  nature 
and  art,  respectively,  take  m  attain- 
ments of  all  kinds  ?  What  is  certain  ? 
By  this  remark,  what  does  our  author 
mean  ?  How  is  this  illustrated  ?  After 
these  preliminary  observations,  to  what 
do  we  proceed  ?  In  the  first  place,  what 
stands  highest  in  the  order  of  means ; 
and  why  ?  Among  whom  was  this  a 
favourite  position  ?  To  find  what,  gives 
pleasure ;  and  what  can  be  clearly 
shown?  What  is  the  first  consideration 
to  support  this  remark  ?  What  is  the 
effect  of  tnese  ?  On  the  other  hand, 
what  opinion  of  the  speaker  will  de- 
stroy the  effect  of  his  eloquence  ? 
Though  it  may  entertain  and  amuse, 
yet  how  is  it  vie  wed?  How  is  this  subject 
furtherillustrated  ?  But,  lest  it  should  be 
said  that  this  relates  only  to  the  charac- 
ter of  virtue,  what  does  our  author  fur- 
ther observe  ?  How  does  it  appear  that 
nothing  is  so  favourable  as  virtue  to  the 
prosecution  of  honourable  studies  ?  In 
what  language  has  Quintilian  touched 
this  consideration  very  properly  ?  But 
liesides  this  consideration,  what  other, 
of  still  higher  importance,  is  there  that, 
deserves  attention  ?  How  is  this  remark 


illustrated  ?  On  all  great  subjects  ami 
occasions,  what  is  the  effect  of  noble 
sentiments  ?  What  do  they  give  to  one's 
discourse  ?  Here,  what  will  not  avail 
and  of  an  assumed  character,  wha 
is  observed  ?  What  only  can  transmit 
the  emotion  to  others ;  and  hence,  what 
follows  ?  What,  therefore,  is  necessary 
for  those  who  would  excel  in  any  ol 
the  higher  kinds  of  oratory  ?  Whenev- 
er these  become  dead,  or  callous,  what 
will  be  the  consequence?  What  are 
the  sentiments  and  dispositions  particu- 
larly requisite  for  them  to  cultivate? 
What  are  extremely  averse  to  elo- 
quence ?  What  does  such  a  disposition 
bespeak  ?  What  are  the  characteristics 
of  a  true  orator  ?  Joined  with  the  man- 
ly virtues,  he  should,  at  the  same  time 
possess  what?  What  must  also  be  stu- 
died by  every  public  speaker  ?  Why  is 
modesty  essential?  But  why  ought  it 
not  to  run  into  excessive  timidity  ? 
What,  in  the  second  place,  is  most  es» 
sential  to  an  orator  ?  What  do  Cicer 
and  Quintilian  say  on  this  subject ;  am 
what  are  the  foundation  of  all  gooi 
speaking?  How  is  this  remark  illus- 
trated ?  What  only  can  attention  to 
style,  composition,  and  all  the  arts  ot 
speech,  do  ?  Of  what  must  he  who  is 
to  plead  at  the  bar,  make  himself  tho- 
roughly master  ?  To  what  study  must 
he  who  is  speaking  from  the  pul  pit.  close- 
ly apply  himself;  and  why  ?  What 
course  must  be  pursued  by  him  who 
would  fit  himself  for  being  a  member  of 
the  supreme  council  of  the  nation  ? 
Besides  the  knowledge  that  properly 
belongs  to  his  profession,  with  what 
must  a  public  speaker  make  himself 
acquainted  ?  What  advantage  will  re- 
sult from  the  study  of  poetry,  and  ot 
history  ?  What  remarks  follow  ?  What, 
in  the  third  place,  is  recommended  ; 
why ;  and  what  must  we  not  imagine  ? 
How,  only,  can  eminence  be  attained? 
As  this  is  a  fixed  law  of  our  nature, 


387  a 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  XXXIV 


what  is  said  of  him  who  can  believe 
himself  an  exception  to  it  ?  Why  is  it 
a  very  wise  law  of  our  nature  1  Of  that 
relaxed  state  of  mind  which  arises 
from  indolence  or  dissipation,  what  is 
observed  ?  By  what  will  one  be  known 
who  is  destined  to  excel  in  any  art?  Of 
this,  what  is  observed?  If  youth  wants 
it,  what  will  be  the  consequence  ?  In 
the  fourth  place,  what  will  contribute 
greatly  towards  improvement  ?  What 
should  every  one  who  speaks  endeavour 
to  have  ;  and  what  is  the  effect  of  sla- 
vish imitation  ?  But,  what  remark  fol- 
lows ?  What  do  they  do  ? 

On  what  will  much  depend  ?  And 
supposing  them  rightly  chosen,  about 
what  is  a   farther  care  requisite ;  and 
why?  What  should  we  study  to  ac- 
quire ?  Why  should  not  one  attach  him- 
self too  closely  to  any  single  model  ? 
What  should  be  his  business  ?  What  is 
here  not  expected  ?    Of  ancient  and 
modern  writers,  from  whom  benefit  may 
be  derived,   what  is  here   observed? 
What  does  our  author  own  is  to  be  re- 
gretted? Among  the   French,   in  the 
different  departments  of  oratory,  whose 
names  are  mentioned  ?  Concerning  the 
imitation  of  the  s'.  yle  of  any  favourite 
author,  to  what   distinction  must  we 
attend  ?  Of  these,  what  is  observed ; 
and  how  is  this  illustrated  ?  What  style 
does  speaking  admit ;  and  of  it,  what  is 
farther  observed  ?    Hence,  what  fol- 
lows ?  What  example  of  illustration  is 
given  ?  Of  some  kinds  of  public  dis- 
course,  what  is  observed?    But  still 
there  is  what  ?  To  what  does  some  au- 
thors' manner  of  writing  approach  more 
nearly  than  others ;  and  what  is  the 
consequence  ?  Who  are  of  this  class  ? 
What  does  the  Dean,  thronsrhout  all  his 
writings,  maintain,  and  of  this,  what  ;s 
observed?  What   is  the  character  of 
Lord   Bolingbroke's  style?  What  ap- 
pearance do  all  his  political  writings 
carry  ?  What  qualities  do  they  possess  ; 
and  of  them,  what  is  to  be  regretted  ? 
In  the  fifth  place,  what  will  be  admit- 
ted to  be  a  necessary  means  of  improve- 
ment? What  sort  of  composition  is  the 
most  useful?    What   advice    is    here 
given  ?  Of  him  who  has  it  for  his  aim 
to  write  and   speak  correctly,  what  is 
observed  ?  By  this  remark,  what  is  not 
meant  ?  To  what  would  this  form  him  ? 
But  what  is  to  be  observed  ?  Of  the 
oecoming  manner,  what  is  observed ; 
bur   what  does  it  require  to  seize  the ' 


just  idea  of  it?  Of  this  idea,  when  ac- 
quired, what  use  should  we   make  ? 
Why  have   exercises  in  speaking  al 
ways  been  recommended  to  students  ? 
Of  the  societies  into  which  they  some- 
times form  themselves  for  this  purpose. 
what  is  observed  ?  How  do  they  become 
favourable  to  knowledge  and  study? 
What  do  they  produce  ;  and  to  what 
do  they  gradually  inure  those  who  are 
engaged  in  them  ?  To  what  do  they 
accustom  them ;    and    what   is,   per- 
haps, their  greatest  advantage  ?  What 
meetings  are  here  to  be  understood  ? 
What  institutions  are  not  merely  use- 
less, but  hurtful  in  their  nature  ?  O 
proving  what,  are  they  in   great  ha- 
zard? Into  what  do  they  mislead  those 
who,  in  their  own  calling,  might  be  use- 
ful members  of  society  ?  Even  of  the 
allowable  meetings  into  which  students 
of  oratory  form  themselves,  what  is  ob- 
served?   Under   what   circumstances 
may  they  improve  themselves  in  petu- 
lance, but  infallibly  form  themselves  to 
a  very  faulty  and  vicious  taste  in  speak- 
ing 1    What  advice  is,  therefore,  given 
to  all  who  are  members  of  such  socie- 
ties ?  What  will  be  the  effect  of  pursu- 
ing this  course?  What  inquiry,  only, 
now  remains?  Of  these,  what  is  obser- 
ved? For  professed  writers  on  public 
speaking,   where  must  we   look  ?   Ol 
popular  eloquence  among  the  moderns, 
what  is  observed  ?  What  is  said  of  Jo- 
annes Gerardus  Vossius  ?    Among  the 
French,  the  names  of  what  writers  on 
this  subject  appear;  and  what  is  said 
of  them  ?  To  whom,  ehiefly,  must  we 
have  recourse;  and  what,  remark  fol- 
lows ?  What  defect,  however,  is  there, 
in  all  the  ancient  rhetorical  writers? 
What  is  all  that  can,  in  truth,  be  done? 
Who  laid  the  foundation  for  all  thai 
was  afterwards  written  on  this  subject ; 
and  of  him,  what  is  observed  ?  He  was 
the  first  that  did  what  ?  What  is  said 
of  his  Treatise  on  Rhetoric  ?  Of  suc- 


ceeding Greek  rhetoricians,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  What  two  still  remain,  and 
what  is  said  of  them  ?  What  general 
remarks  are  made  on  Cicero's  rhetori- 
cal writings-?  Of  them,  which  are  the 
most  distinguished  ;  and  what  is  said  cr 
them  ?  Of  all  the  ancient  writers  o" 
the  subject  of  oratory,  who  is  the  oaoei 
useful,  and  the  most  instructive?  iV 
Quintilian,  and  of  his  insititu^es.  wUa- 
is  observed  1 


lect.  xxxv.]       COMPARATIVE  MERIT,  &c. 


337  b 


ANALYSIS. 

Preliminary  observations. 

Means  of  improving  in  eloquence. 
1    Moral  qualifications. 
a.  Virtue  favourable  to  the   prosecu- 
tion of  honourable  studies. 
B.  The  most   affecting  sentiments  flow 
from  virtuous  hearts. 
2.  A  fund  of  knowledge  requisite. 


3.  Industry  and  application  necessary. 

4.  Attention  to  the  best  models  recom- 

mended. 
a.  The  distinction  between  written  and 
spoken  language. 

5.  Frequency  of  composing  and  speaking. 
A.  Directions  for  the  same. 

6.  The  study  of  critical  writers  requisite 
a.  Ancient  original  writers  to  be  con- 
sulted. 


LECTUKE    XXXV. 


COMPARATIVE  MERIT  OF  THE  ANCIENTS  AND  THE 
MODERNS.— HISTORICAL    WRITING. 

I  have  now  finished  that  part'  of  the  course  which  respected  ora- 
tory, or  public  speaking,  and  which,  as  far  as  the  subject  allowed,  I 
nave  endeavoured  to  form  into  some  sort  of  system.  It  remains,  that 
.  enter  on  the  consideration  of  the  most  distinguished  kinds  of  com- 
"osition,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  and  point  out  the  principles  of 
criticism  relating  to  them.  This  part  of  the  work  might  easily  be 
lrawn  out  to  a  great  length  ;  but  I  am  sensible  that  critical  discus- 
ons,  when  they  are  pursued  too  far,  become  both  trifling  and  te- 
dious. I  shall  study,  therefore,  to  avoid  unnecessary  prolixity  ;  arid 
hope,  at  the  same  time,  to  omit  nothing  that  is  very  material  under 
the  several  heads. 

I  shall  follow  the  same  method  here  which  I  have  all  along  pur- 
sued, and  without  which,  these  lectures  could  not  be  entitled  to  any 
attention ;  that  is,  I  shall  freely  deliver  my  own  opinion  on  every 
subject ;  regarding  authority  no  farther  than  as  it  appears  to  me 
founded  on  good  sense  and  reason.  In  former  lectures,  as  1  have  of- 
ten quoted  several  of  the  ancient  classics  for  their  beauties,  so  I  have 
also,  sometimes,  pointed  out  their  defects.  Hereafter,  I  shall  have 
occasion  to  do  the  same,  when  treating  of  their  writings  under  more 
general  heads.  It  may  be  fit  that,  before  I  proceed  farther,  I  make 
some  observations  on  the  comparative  merit  of  the  ancients  and  the 
moderns  ;  in  order  that  we  may  be  able  to  ascertain,  rationally,  upon 
what  foundation  that  deference  rests,  which  has  so  generally  been 
paid  to  the  ancients.  These  observations  are  the  more  necessary, 
as  this  subject  has  given  rise  to  no  small  controversy  in  the  republic 
of  letters  ;  and  they  may,  with  propriety,  be  made  now,  as  they  will 
serve  to  throw  light  on  some  things  I  have  afterwards  to  deliver,  con- 
cerning different  kinds  of  composition. 

It  is  a  remarkable  phenomenon,  and  one  which  has  often  employ- 
ed the  speculations  of  curious  men,  that  writers  and  artists,  most 
distinguished  for  their  parts  and  genius,  have  generally  appeared  m 
considerable  numbers  at  a  time.  Some  ages  have  been  remarkably 
barren  in  them  ;  while,  at  other  periods,  nature  seems  to  have  exert- 
ed herself  with  a  more  than  ordinary  effort,  and  to  have  poured 
them  forth  with  a  profuse  fertility.  Various  reasons  have  been  as- 
signed for  this.  Some  of  the  moral  causes  lie  obvious  ;  such  as  fa- 
3  K 


588  COMPARATIVE  MERIT  OF  THE         [lect.xaxv. 

vourable  circumstances  of  government  ,and  of  manners;  encourage- 
ment from  great  men;  emulation  excited  among  the  men  of  genius. 
But  as  these  have  been  thought  inadequate  to  the  whole  effect,  phy- 
sical causes  have  been  also  assigned;  and  the  Abbe  du  Bos,  in  fiis 
reflections  on  poetry  and  painting,  has  collected  a  great  many  obser- 
vations on  the  influence  which  the  air,  the  climate,  and  other  such 
natural  causes,  may  be  supposed  to  have  upon  genius.  But  what- 
ever the  causes  be,  the  fact  is  certain,  that  there  have  been  certain 
periods  or  ages  of  the  world  much  more  distinguished  than  others, 
for  the  extraordinary  productions  of  genius. 

Learned  men  have  marked  out  four  of  these  happy  ages.  The 
first  is  the  Grecian  age,  which  commenced  near  the  time  of  the  Pe- 
loponnesian  war,  and  extended  till  the  time  of  Alexander  the 
Great;  within  which  period,  we  have  Herodotus,  Thucydides, 
Xenophon,  Socrates,  Plato,  Aristotle,  Demosthenes,  iEschines,  Ly- 
sias,  Isocrates,  Pindar, iEschylus,  Euripides,  Sophocles,  Aristopha- 
nes, Menander,  Anacreon,  Theocritus,  Lysippus,  Apelles,  Phidias, 
Praxiteles.  The  second,  is  the  Roman  age,  included  nearly  within 
the  days  of  Julius  Caesar  and  Augustus  ;  affording  us  Catullus,  Lu- 
cretius, Terence,  Virgil,  Horace,  Tibullus,  Propertius,  Ovid,  Phae- 
drus,  Caesar,  Cicero,  Livy,  Sallust,  Varro,  and  Vitruvius.  The  third 
age  is,  that  of  the  restoration  of  learning,  under  the  Popes  Julius  II. 
and  Leo  X. ;  when  flourished  Ariosto,  Tasso,  Sannazarius,  Vida, 
Machiavel,  Guicciardini,  Davila,  Erasmus,  Paul  Jovius,  Michael 
Angelo,  Raphael,  Titian.  The  fourth  comprehends  the  age  of  Louis 
the  XIV.  and  Queen  Anne,  when  flourished  in  France,  Corneille. 
Racine,  De  Retz,  Moliere,  Boileau,  Fontaine,  Baptiste,  Rousseau, 
Bossuet,  Fenelon,  Bourdaloue,  Pascail,  Malebranche,  Massillon, 
Bruyere,  Bayle,  Fontenelle,  Vertot;  and  in  England,  Dryden, 
Pope,  Addison,  Prior,  Swift,  Parnell,  Arbuthnot,  Congreve,  Otway,, 
Young,  Rowe,  Atterbury,  Shaftesbury,  Bolingbroke,  Tillotson, 
Temple,  Boyle,  Locke,  Newton,  Clarke. 

When  we  speak  comparatively  of  the  ancients  and  the  moderns, 
we  generally  mean  by  the  ancients,  such  as  lived  in  the  two  first  of 
these  periods,  including  also  one  or  two  who  lived  more  early,  as 
Homer  in  particular;  and  by  the  moderns,  those  who  flourished  in 
the  two  last  of  these  ages,  including  also  the  eminent  writers  down 
to  our  own  times.  Any  comparison  between  these  two  classes  of 
writers,  must  be  necessarily  vague  and  loose,  as  they  comprehend 
so  many,  and  of  such  different  kinds  and  degrees  of  genius.  But 
the  comparison  is  generally  made  to  turn  by  those  who  are  fond  of 
"making  it,  upon  two  or  three  of  the  most  distinguished  in  each  class. 
With  much  heat  it  was  agitated  in  France,  between  Boileau  and 
Mad.  Dacier,  on  the  one  hand  for  the  ancients,  and  Perrault  and 
La  Motte,  on  the  other,  for  the  moderns  ;  and  it  was  carried  to  ex- 
tremes on  both  sides.  To  this  day,  among  men  of  taste  and  letters, 
we  find  a  leaning  to  one  or  other  side.  A  few  reflections  may  throw 
light  upon  the  subject,  and  enable  us  to  discern  upon  what  grounds 
we  are  to  rest  our  judgment  in  this  controversy. 

IS  any  one,  at  this  day,  in  the  eighteenth  century,  takes  upon  hin 


lect.  xxxr.]    ANCIENTS  AND  THE  MODERNS.  3»-» 

to  decry  the  ancient  classics;  if  he  pretends  to  have  discovered 
that  Homer  and  Virgil  are  poets  of  inconsiderable  merit,  and  that 
Demosthenes  and  Cicero  are  not.  great  orators,  we  may  boldly  ven- 
ture to  tell  such  a  man,  that  he  is  come  too  late  with  his  discovery 
The  reputation  of  such  writers  is  established  upon  a  foundation  too 
solid,  to  be  now  shaken  by  any  arguments  whatever;  for  it  is  esta- 
blished upon  that  almost  universal  taste  of  mankind,  proved  and  tri- 
ed throughout  the  succession  of  so  many  ages.  Imperfections  in 
their  works  he  may  indeed  point  out;  passages  that  are  faulty  he 
may  show;  for  where  is  the  human  work  that  is  perfect?  But,  if  he 
attempts  to  discredit  their  works  in  general,  or  to  prove  that  the  re- 
putation which  they  have  gained  is  on  the  whole,  unjust,  there  is  an 
argument  against  him,  which  is  equal  to  full  demonstration.  He 
must  be  in  the  wrong ;  for  human  nature  is  against  him.  In  matters 
of  taste,  such  as  poetry  and  oratory,  to  whom  does  the  appeal  lie  ? 
where  is  the  standard  ?  and  where  the  authority  of  the  last  decision? 
where  is  it  to  be  looked  for,  but,  as  I  formerly  showed,  in  those 
feelings  and  sentiments  that  are  found,  on  the  most  extensive  exami- 
nation, to  be  the  common  sentiments  and  feelings  of  men?  These 
have  been  fully  consulted  on  this  head.  The  public,  the  unprejudic- 
ed public,  has  been  tried  and  appealed  to  for  many  centuries,  and 
throughout  almost  all  civilized  nations.  It  has  pronounced  its  ver- 
dict: it  has  given  its  sanction  to  those  writers;  and  from  this  tribu- 
nal there  lies  no  farther  appeal. 

In  matters  of  mere  reasoning,  the  world  may  be  long  in  an  error; 
and  may  be  convinced  of  the  error  by  stronger  reasonings,  when 
produced.  Positions  that  depend  upon  science,  upon  knowledge, 
and  matters  of  fact,  may  be  overturned  according  as  science  and 
knowledge  are  enlarged,  and  new  matters  of  fact  are  broughtto  light. 
For  this  reason,  a  system  of  philosophy  receives  no  sufficient  sanc- 
tion from  its  antiquity,  or  long  currency.  The  world,  as  it  grows 
older,  may  be  justly  expected  to  become,  if  not  wiser,  at  least  more 
knowing ;  and  supposing  it  doubtful,  whether  Aristotle,  or  Newton, 
were  the  greater  genius,  yet  Newton's  philosophy  may  prevail  over 
Aristotle's,  by  means  of  later  discoveries,  to  which  Aristotle  was  a 
stranger.  But  nothing  of  this  kind  holds  as  to  matters  of  taste  ; 
which  depend  not  on  the  progress  of  knowledge  and  science,  but 
upon  sentiment  and  feeling.  It  is  in  vain  to  think  of  undeceiving 
mankind,  with  respect  to  errors  committed  here,  as  in  philosophy. 
For  the  universal  feeling  of  mankind  is  the  natural  feeling;  and  be- 
cause it  is  the  natural,  it  is  for  that  reason,  the  right  feeling.  The 
reputation  of  the  Iliad  and  the  jEneid  must  therefore  stand  upon 
sure  ground,  because  it  has  stood  so  long;  though  that  of  the  Aris- 
totelian or  Platonic  philosophy,  every  one  is  at  liberty  to  call  in 
question. 

It  is  in  vain  also  to  allege,  that  the  reputation  of  the  ancient  po- 
ets, and  orators,  is  owing  to  authority,  to  pedantry,  and  to  the  preju- 
dices of  education,  transmitted  from  age  to  age.  These,  it  is  true, 
are  the  authors  put  into  our  hands  at  schools  and  colleges,  and  by 
that  means  we  have  no\  •  an  early  prepossession  in  their  favour;  but 


390  COMPARATIVE  MERIT  01   THE   [lect.  xxxv 

how  came  they  to  gain  the  possession  of  colleges  and  schools?  Plain- 
ly, by  the  high  fame  which  these  had  among  their  own  cotemporaries 
For  the  Greek  and  Latin  were  not  always  dead  languages.  There 
was  a  time  when  Homer,  and  Virgil,  and  Horace,  were  viewed  in 
the  same  light  as  we  now  view  Dryden,  Pope,  and  Addison.  It  is 
not  to  commentators  and  universities,  that  the  classics  are  indebted 
for  their  fame.  They  became  classics  and  school-books,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  high  admiration  which  was  paid  them  by  the  best 
judges  in  their  own  country  and  nation.  As  early  as  the  days  of 
Juvenal,  who  wrote  under  the  reign  of  Domitian,  we  find  Virgil  and 
Horace  become  the  standard  books  in  the  education  of  youth. 

Quot  stabant  pueri,  cum  totus  decolftr  esset 

Flaccus,  it  hsereret  nigro  fuligo  Maroni.*  Sat.  7. 

From  this  general  principle,  then,  of  the  reputation  of  the  great 
ancient  classics  being  so  early,  so  lasting,  so  universal  among  all  the 
most  polished  nations,  we  may  justly  and  boldly  infer  that  their  re- 
putation cannot  be  wholly  unjust,  but  must  have  a  solid  foundation 
in  the  merit  of  their  writings. 

Let  us  guard,  however,  against  a  blind  and  implicit  veneration  for 
the  ancients  in  every  thing.  I  have  Opened  the  general  principle, 
which  must  go  far  in  instituting  a  fair  comparison  between  them  and 
the  moderns.  Whatever  superiority  the  ancients  may  have  had  in 
point  of  genius,  yet  in  all  arts,  where  the  natural  progress  of  know- 
ledge has  had  room  to  produce  any  considerable  effects,  the  mo- 
derns cannot  but  have  some  advantage.  The  world  may,  in  certain 
respects,  be  considered  as  a  person,  who  must  needs  gain  somewhat 
by  advancing  in  years.  Its  improvements  have  not,  I  confess,  been 
always  in  proportion  to  the  centuries  that  have  passed  over  it;  for, 
during  the  course  of  some  ages,  it  has  sunk  as  into  a  total  lethargy. 
Yet,  when  roused  from  that  lethargy,  it  has  generally  been  able  to 
avail  itself  more  or  less,  of  former  discoveries.  At  interval,  there 
arose  some  happy  genius,  who  could  both  improve  on  what  had 
gone  before,  and  invent  something  new.  With  the  advantage  of  a 
proper  stock  of  materials,  an  inferior  genius  can  make  greater  pro- 
gress, than  a  much  superior  one,  to  whom  these  materials  are  want- 
ing. 

Hence,  in  natural  philosophy,  astronomy,  chemistry,  and  other 
sciences  that  depend  on  an  extensive  knowledge  and  observation  of 
facts,  modern  philosophers  have  an  unquestionable  superiority  over 
the  ancient.  I  am  inclined  also  to  think,  that  in  matters  of  pure 
reasoning,  there  is  more  precision  among  the  moderns,  than  in  some 
instances  there  was  among  the  ancients;  owing  perhaps  to  a  more 
extensive  literary  intercourse,  which  has  improved  jwd  sharpened 
the  faculties  of  men.     In  some  studies  too,  that  relate  *o  taste  and 


"  Then  thou  art  bound  to  smell,  on  either  hand, 

As  many  stinking  lamps,  as  school-boys  stand, 

When  Horace  could  not  read  in  his  own  sully'd  book, 

And  Virgil's  sacred  page  was  all  besmear'd  with  smoke  '      Dryden 


lect.  xxxv.]    ANCIENTS  AND  THE  MODERNS.  391 

fine  writing,  which  is  our  object,  the  progress  of  society  must,  in 
equity,  be  admitted  to  have  given  us  some  advantages.  For  instance, 
in  history;  there  is  certainly  more  political  knowledge  in  several 
European  nations  at  present,  than  there  was  in  ancient  Greece  and 
Rome.  We  are  better  acquainted  with  the  nature  of  government, 
because  we  have  seen  it  under  a  greater  variety  of  forms  and  revolu- 
tions. The  world  is  more  laid  open  than  it  was  in  former  times; 
commerce  is  greatly  enlarged  ;  more  countries  are  civilized  ;  posts 
are  every  where  established;  intercourse  is  become  more  easy;  and 
the  knowledge  of  facts,  by  consequence,  more  attainable.  All  these 
are  great  advantages  to  historians;  of  which,  in  some  measure,  as 
I  shall  afterward  show,  they  have  availed  themselves.  In  the  more 
complex  kinds  of  poetry,  likewise,  we  may  have  gained  somewhat, 
perhap'Sjin  point  of  regularity  and  accuracy.  In  dramatic  perform- 
ances, having  the  advantage  of  the  ancient  models,  we  may  be 
allowed  to  have  made  some  improvements  in  the  variety  of  the 
characters,  the  conduct  of  the  plot,  attention  to  probability,  and  to 
decorums. 

These  seem  to  me  the  chief  points  of  superiority  we  can  plead 
above  the  ancients.  Neither  do  they  extend  as  far  as  might  be 
imagined  at  first  view.  For  if  the  strength  of  genius  be  on  one 
side:  it  will  go  far,  in  works  of  taste  at  least,  to  counterbalance  all 
the  artificial  improvements  which  can  be  made  by  greater  know- 
ledge and  correctness.  To  return  to  our  comparison  of  the  age  of 
the  world  with  that  of  a  man;  it  may  be  said,  not  altogether  with- 
out reason,  that  if  the  advancing  age  of  the  world  bring  along  with 
it  more  science  and  more  refinement,  there  belong,  however,  to  its 
earlier  periods,  more  vigour,  more  fire,  more  enthusiasm  of  genius. 
This  appears  indeed  to  form  the  characteristical  difference  between 
the  ancient  poets,  orators,  and  historians,  compared  with  the  modern. 
Among  the  ancients,  we  find  higher  conceptions,  greater  simplicity, 
more  original  fancy.  Among  the  moderns,  sometimes  more  art  and 
correctness,  but  feebler  exertions  of  genius.  But,  though  this  be  in 
general  a  mark  of  distinction  between  the  ancients  and  moderns, 
yet,  like  all  general  observations,  it  must  be  understood  with  some 
exception*;  for  in  point  of  poetical  fire  and  original  genius,  Milton 
and  Shakspeare  are  inferior  to  no  poets  in  any  age. 

It  is  proper  to  observe,  that  there  were  some  circumstances 
in  ancient  times,  very  favourable  to  those  uncommon  efforts  of 
genius  which  were  then  exerted.  Learning  was  a  much  more 
rare  and  singular  attainment  in  the  earlier  ages,  than  it  is  at  present. 
It  was  not  to  schools  and  universities  that  the  persons  applied,  who 
sought  to  distinguish  themselves.  They  had  not  this  easy  recourse. 
They  travelled  for  their  improvement  into  distant  countries,  to 
Egypt,  and  to  the  East.  They  inquired  after  all  the  monuments 
of  learning  there.  They  conversed  with  priests,  philosophers, 
poets,  with  all  who  had  acquired  any  distinguished  fame.  They 
returned  to  their  own  country  full  of  the  discoveries  which  they 
had  made,  and  fired  by  the  new  and  uncommon  objects  which 
Uiey  had  seen.     Their  knowledge  and  improvements  cosi   them 


392  COMPARATIVE  MERIT  OF  THE    [lect.  xxxv 

moro  labour,  raised  in  them  more  enthusiasm,  were  attended  with 
higher  rewards  and  honours,  than  in  modern  days.  Fewer  h-^.  the 
means  and  opportunities  of  distinguishing  themselves;  but  such  as 
did  distinguish  themselves,  were  sure  of  acquiring  that  fame,  and 
even  veneration,  which  is,  of  all  other  rewards,  the  greatest  incentive 
to  genius.  Herodotus  read  his  history  to  all  Greece  assembled  ar 
the  Olympic  games,  and  was  publicly  crowned.  In  the  Peloponnesian 
war,  when  the  Athenian  army  was  defeated  in  Sicily,  and  the 
prisoners  were  ordered  to  be  put  to  death,  such  of  them  as  could  re- 
peat any  verses  of  Euripides  were  saved,  from  honour  to  that  poet, 
who  was  a  citiz"  1  of  Athens.  These  were  testimonies  of  publif 
regard,  far  beyond  what  modern  manners  confer  upon  genius. 

In  our  times,  good  writing  is  considered  as  an  attainment  neither 
so  difficult,  nor  so  high  and  meritorious. 

Scribimus  indocti,  doctique,  Poemata  passim.* 

We  write  much  more  supinely,  and  at  our  ease,  than  the  ancients. 
To  excel,  is  become  a  much  less  considerable  object.  Less  effort, 
less  exertion  is  required,  because  we  have  many  more  assistances 
than  they.  Printing  has  rendered  all  books  common,  and  easy 
to  be  had.  Education  for  any  of  the  learned  professions  can 
be  carried  on  without  much  trouble.  Hence  a  mediocrity  of 
genius  is  spread  over  all.  But  to  rise  beyond  that,  and  to  overtop 
the  crowd,  is  given  to  few.  The  multitude  of  assistances  which 
we  have  for  all  kinds  of  composition,  in  the  opinion  of  Sir  William 
Temple,  a  very  competent  judge,  rather  depresses,  than  favours, 
the  exertions  of  native  genius.  "  It  is  very  possible,"  says  that 
ingenious  author,  in  his  Essay  on  the  Ancients  and  Moderns,  "that 
men  may  lose  rather  than  gain  by  these;  may  lessen  the  force  of 
their  own  genius,  by  forming  it  upon  that  of  others ;  may  have 
less  knowledge  of  their  own,  for  contenting  themselves  with  that 
of  those  before  them.  So  a  man  that  only  translates,  shall  never 
be  a  poet;  so  people  that  trust  to  others'  charity,  rather  than 
their  own  industry,  will  be  always  poor.  Who  can  tell,"  he  adds, 
"  whether  learning  may  not  even  weaken  invention,  in  a  man 
that  has  great  advantages  from  nature?  Whether  the  weight 
and  number  of  so  many  other  men's  thoughts  and  notions  may 
not  suppress  his  own;  as  heaping  on  wood  sometimes  suppresses 
a  little  spark,  that  would  otherwise  have  grown  into  a  flame  ?  The 
strength  of  mind,  as  well  as  of  body,  grows  more  from  the  warmth 
of  exercise,  than  of  clothes ;  nay,  too  much  of  this  foreign  heat, 
rather  makes  men  faint,  and  their  constitutions  weaker  than  they 
would  be  without  them." 

From  whatever  cause  it  happens,  so  it  is,  that  among  some 
of  the  ancient  writers,  we  must  look  for  the  highest  models  ir« 
most  of  the  kinds  of  elegant  composition.  For  accurate  think- 
ing and  enlarged   ideas,    in  several    parts  of  philosophy,  to  the 

*  "  Now  every  desp'rate  blockhead  dares  to  write  ; 

Verse  is  the  trade  of  ev'ry  living  wight"  Fra  vcu 


lect.xxxv.]  ANCIENTS  AND  THE  MODERNS.  393 

moderns  we  ought  chiefly  to  have  recourse.  Of  correct  and 
finished  writing  in  some  works  of  taste,  they  may  afford  useful  pat- 
terns :  but  for  all  that  belongs  to  original  genius,  to  spirited,  master 
ly,  and  high  execution,  our  best  and  most  happy  ideas  are,  generally 
speaking,  drawn  from  the  ancients.  In  epic  poetry,  for  instance, 
Homer  and  Virgil,  to  this  day,  stand  not  within  many  degrees  of  any 
rival.  .  Orators,  such  as  Cicero  and  Demosthenes,  we  have  none. 
In  history,  notwithstanding  some  defects,  which  I  am  afterwards  to 
mention  in  the  ancient  historical  plans,  it  may  be  safely  asserted,  that 
we  have  no  such  historical  narration,  so  elegant,  so  picturesque,  so 
animated,  and  interesting,as  that  of  Herodotus,  Thucydides,  Xen 
ophon,  Livy,  Tacitus,  and  Sallust.  Although  the  conduct  of  the 
drama  may  be  admitted  to  have  received  some  improvements, 
yet  for  poetry  and  sentiment  we  have  nothing  to  equal  Sophocles 
and  Euripides ;  nor  any  dialogue  in  comedy,  that  comes  up  to  the 
correct,  graceful,  and  elegant  simplicity  of  Terence.  We  have 
no  such  love  elegies  as  those  of  Tibullus  ;  no  such  pastorals  as  some 
of  Theocritus's;  and  for  lyric  poetry,  Horace  stands  quite  unri- 
valled. The  name  of  Horace  cannot  be  mentioned  without  a 
particular  encomium.  That  "Curiosa  Felicitas"  which  Petronius 
has  remarked  in  his  expression  ;  the  sweetness,  elegance,  and  spirit 
of  many  of  his  odes,  the  thorough  knowledge  of  the  world,  the 
excellent  sentiments,  and  natural  easy  manner  which  distinguish 
his  satires  and  epistles,  all  contribute  to  render  him  one  of  those 
very  few  authors  whom  one  never  tires  of  reading;  and  from  whom 
alone,  were  every  other  monument  destroyed,  we  should  be  led  to 
form  a  very  high  idea  of  the  taste  and  genius  of  the  Augustan  age. 
To  all  such,  then,  as  wish  to  form  their  taste  and  nourish  their 
genius,  let  me  warmly  recommend  the  assiduous  study  of  the  an- 
cient classics,  both  Greek  and  Roman. 

Nocturne  versate  manu,  versate  diurna.* 

Without  a  considerable  acquaintance  with  them,  no  man  can 
be  reckoned  a  polite  scholar ;  and  he  will  want  many  assistances 
for  writing  and  speaking  well,  which  the  knowledge  of  such  au- 
thors would  afford  him.  Any  one  has  great  reason  to  suspect  his 
own  taste,  who  receives  little  or  no  pleasure  from  the  perusal  of 
writings,  which  so  many  ages  and  nations  have  consented  in  hold- 
ing up  as  objects  of  admiration.  And  I  am  persuaded  it  will 
be  found,  that  in  proportion  as  the  ancients  are  generally  studied 
and  admired,  or  are  unknown  and  disregarded  in  any  country, 
good  taste  and  good  composition  will  flourish,  or  decline.  They 
are  commonly  none  but  the  ignorant  or  superficial,  who  undervalue 
them. 

At  the  same  time,  a  just  and  high  regard  for  the  prime  writers 
of  antiquity  is  to  be  always  distinguished,  from  that  contempt  of 
every  thing  which  is  modern,  and  that  blind  veneration  for  all  that 
has  been  written  in  Greek  or  Latin,  which  belongs  only  to  pe- 

*  "  Kead  them  by  day,  and  study  them  by  night."  Franc(b 

50 


594  HISTORICAL  WRITING  [lect.  xxxv. 

dants.  Among  the  Greek  and  Roman  authors,  some  assuredly 
deserve  much  higher  regard  than  others  ;  nay,  some  are  of  no 
great  value.  Even  the  best  of  them  lie  open  occasionally  to  just 
censure ;  for  to  no  human  pcrformaii.'e  is  it  given  to  be  absolutely 
perfect.  We  may,  we  ought  therefore  to  read  them  with  a  dis- 
tinguishing eye,  so  as  to  propose  lor  imitation  their  beauties  only; 
and  it  is  perfectly  consistent  with  just  and  candid  criticism,  to  find 
fault  with  parts,  while,  at  the  same  time,  it  admires  the  whole. 

After  these  reflections  on  the  ancients  and  moderns,  I  proceed  to 
a  critical  examination  of  the  most  distinguished  kinds  of  composition, 
and  the  characters  of  those  writers  who  have  excelled  in  them, 
whether  modern  or  ancient. 

The  most  general  division  of  the  different  kinds  of  composition 
is,  in  those  written  in  prose,  and  those  written  in  verse;  which 
certainly  require  to  be  separately  considered,  because  subject 
to  separate  laws.  I  begin,  as  is  most  natural,  with  writings  in  prose. 
Of  orations,  or  public  discourses  of  all  kinds,  I  have  already  treated 
fully.  The  remaining  species  of  prose  compositions,  which  assume 
any  such  regular  form,  as  to  fall  under  the  cognizance  of  criticism, 
seem  to  be  chiefly  these:  historical  writing,  philosophical  writing, 
epistolary  writing,  and  fictitious  history.  Historical  composition 
shall  be  first  considered  ;  and,  as  it  is  an  object  of  dignity,  I  pur- 
pose to  treat  of  it  at  some  length. 

As  it  is  the  office  of  an  orator  to  persuade,  it  is  that  of  an  histo- 
rian to  record  truth  for  the  instruction  of  mankind.  This  is  the  pro- 
per object  and  end  of  history,  from  which  may  be  deduced  many  of 
the  laws  relating  to  it ;  and  if  this  object  were  always  kept  in  view, 
it  would  prevent  many  of  the  errors  into  which  persons  are  apt  to 
fall  concerning  this  species  of  composition.  As  the  primary  end.of 
history  is  to  record  truth, — impartiality,  fidelity,  and  accuracy,  are 
the  fundamental  qualities  of  an  historian.  He  must  neither  be  a 
panegyrist,  nor  a  satirist.  He  must  not  enter  into  faction,  nor  give 
scope  to  affection :  but,  contemplating  past  events  and  characters 
with  a  cool  and  dispassionate  eye,  must  present  to  his  readers  a  faith- 
ful copy  of  human  nature. 

At  the  same  time,  it  is  not  every  record  of  facts,  however  true, 
that  is  entitled  to  the  name  of  history;  but  such  a  record  as  enables  us 
to  apply  the  transactions  of  former  ages  for  our  own  instruction.  The 
facts  ought  to  be  momentous  and  important:  represented  in  con- 
nexion with  their  causes,  traced  to  their  effects,  and  unfolded  in 
clear  and  distinct  order.  For  wisdom  is  the  great  end  of  history.  It 
is  designed  to  supply  the  want  of  experience.  Though  it  enforce 
not  its  instructions  with  the  same  authority,  yet  it  furnishes  us  with 
a  greater  variety  of  instructions,  than  it  is  possible  for  experience  to 
afford,  in  the  course  of  the  longest  life.  Its  object  is  to  enlarge  our 
views  of  the  human  character,  and  to  give  full  exercise  to  our  judg- 
ment on  human  affairs.  It  must  not  therefore  be  a  tale,  calculated 
to  please  only,  and  addressed  to  the  fancy.  Gravity  and  dignity  are 
essential  characteristics  of  history;  no  light  ornaments  are  to  be  em- 
ployed, no  flippancy  of  style,  no  quaintness  of  wit.     But  the  writer 


lect.  xxxv,]         HISTORICAL  WRITING.  395 

must  sustain  the  character  of  a  wise  man,  writing;  for  the  instruction 
of  posterity;  one  who  has  studied  to  inform  himself  well,  who  has 
pondered  his  subject  with  care,  and  addresses  himself  to  our  judg- 
ment, rather  than  to  our  imagination.  At  the  same  time, historical 
writing  is  by  no  means  inconsistent  with  ornamented  and  spirited 
narration.  It  admits  of  much  high  ornament  and  elegance  ;  but  the 
ornaments  must  be  always  consistent  with  dignity;  they  should  not 
appear  t4  be  sought  after ;  but  to  rise  naturally  from  a  mind  animated 
by  the  events  which  it  records. 

Historical  composition  is  understood  to  comprehend  under  it,  an- 
nals, memoirs,  lives.  But  these  are  its  inferior  subordinate  species ; 
on  which  I  shall  hereafter  make  some  reflections,  when  I  shall  have 
first  considered  what  belongs  to  a  regular  and  legitimate  work  of 
history.  Such  a  work  is  chiefly  of  two  kinds,  either  the  entire  history 
of  some  state  or  kingdom  through  its  different  revolutions,  such  as 
Livy's  Roman  History  ;  or  the  history  of  some  one  great  event,  or 
3ome  portion  or  period  of  time  which  may  be  considered  as  making  a 
whole  by  itself;  such  as,  Thucydides's  History  of  the  Peloponne- 
sian  War,  Davila's  History  of  the  Civil  Wars  of  France,  or  Claren- 
don's of  those  of  England. 

In  the  conduct  and  management  of  his  subject,  the  first  attention 
requisite  in  an  historian,  is  to  give  it  as  much  unity  as  possible ;  that 
is,  his  history  should  not  consist  of  separate  unconnected  parts  mere- 
ly, but  should  be  bound  together  by  some  connecting  principle, 
which  shall  make  the  impression  on  the  mind  of  something  that  is 
one,  whole,  and  entire.  It  is  inconceivable  how  great  an  effect  this, 
when  happily  executed,  has  upon  a  reader,  and  it  is  surprising  that 
some  able  writers  of  history  have  not  attended  to  it  more.  Whether 
pleasure  or  instruction  be  the  end  sought  by  the  study  of  history, 
either  of  them  is  enjoyed  to  much  greater  advantage,  when  the  mind 
has  always  before  it  the  progress  of  some  one  great  plan  or  sys- 
tem of  action;  when  there  is  some  point  or  centre,  to  which  we 
can  refer  the  various  facts  related  by  the  historian. 

In  general  histories,  which  record  the  affairs  of  a  whole  nation  or 
empire  throughout  several  ages,  this  unity,  I  confess,  must  be  more 
imperfect.  Yet  even  there,  some  degree  of  it  can  be  preserved  by  a 
skilful  writer.  For  though  the  whole,  taken  together,  be  very  com- 
plex, yet  the  great  constituent  parts  of  it,  form  so  many  subordinate 
wholes,  when  taken  by  themselves;  each  of  which  can  be  treated 
both  as  complete  within  itself,  and  as  connected  with  what  goes  be- 
fore and  follows.  In  the  history  of  a  monarchy,  for  instance,  every 
reign  should  have  its  own  unity;  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end,  to 
the  system  of  affairs;  while,  at  the  same  time,  we  are  taught  to 
discern  how  that  system  of  affairs  rose  from  the  preceding,  and 
how  it  is  inserted  into  what  follows.  We  should  be  able  to  trace,  all 
the  secret  links  of  the  chain,  which  binds  together  remote,  and  seem- 
ingly unconnected  events.  In  some  kingdoms  of  Europe,  it  was  the 
plan  of  many  succeeding  princes  to  reduce  the  power  of  their  no- 
bles and  during  several  reigns,  mos:*,  of  the  leading  actions  had  a 
reference  to  this  end.     In  other  states,  the  rising  power  of  the  com 


396  HISTORICAL  WRITING.  [lect.  xxxv 

mons,  influenced  for  a  tract  of  time  fhe  course  and  connexion  oi 
public  affairs.  Among  the  Romans,  the  leading  principle  was  a 
gradual  extension  of  conquest,  and  the  attainment  of  universal  em- 
pire. The  continual  increase  of  their  power,  advancing  towards 
this  end  from  small  beginnings,  and  by  a  sort  of  regular  progressive 
plan,  furnished  to  Livy  a  happy  subject  for  historical  unity,  in  the 
midst  of  a  great  variety  of  transactions. 

Of  all  the  ancient  general  historians,  the  one  who  had  the  most 
exact  idea  of  this  quality  of  historical  composition,  though,  in  other 
respects  not  an  elegant  writer,  is  Polybius.  This  appears  from  the 
account  he  gives  of  his  own  plan  in  the  beginning  of  his  third  book ; 
observing  that  the  subject  of  which  he  had  undertaken  to  write,  is, 
throughout  the  whole  of  it,  one  action,  one  great  spectacle ;  how, 
and  by  what  causes,  all  the  parts  of  the  habitable  world  became  sub 
ject  to  the  Roman  empire.  'This  action,'  says  he,  'is  distinct  in 
its  beginning,  determined  in  its  duration,  and  clear  in  its  final  ac- 
complishment; therefore,  I  think  it  of  use,  to  give  a  general  view 
beforehand,  of  the  chief  constituent  parts  which  make  up  this 
whole.'  In  another  place  he  congratulates  himself  on  his  good 
fortune,  in  having  a  subject  for  history,  which  allowed  such  variety 
of  parts  to  be  united  under  one  view ;  remarking,  that  before  this 
period,  the  affairs  of  the  world  were  scattered,  and  without  connex- 
ion; whereas,  in  the  times  of  which  he  writes,  all  the  great  transac- 
tions of  the  world  tended  and  verged  to  one  point,  and  were  capa- 
ble of  being  considered  as  parts  of  one  system.  Whereupon  he 
adds  several  very  judicious  observations,  concerning  the  usefulness 
of  writing  history  upon  such  a  comprehensive,  and  connected  plan; 
comparing  the  imperfect  degree  of  knowledge,  which  is  afforded  by 
particular  facts,  without  general  views,  to  the  imperfect  idea  which 
one  would  entertain  of  an  animal,  who  had  beheld  its  separate  parts 
only,  without  having  ever  seen  its  entire  form  and  structure.* 

Such  as  write  the  history  of  some  particular  great  transaction,  as 
confine  themselves  to  one  era,  or  one  portion  of  the  history  of  a 
nation,  have  so  great  advantages  for  preserving  historical  unity,  th.*>t 
they  are  inexcusable  if  they  fail  in  it.  Sallust's  histories  of  the 
Catilinarian  and  Jugurthine  wars,  Xenophon's  Cyropoedia,  and  his 
retreat  of  the  ten  thousand,  are  instances  of  particular  histories, 
where  the  unity  of  historical  narration  is  perfectly  well  maintained. 
Thucydides,  otherwise  a  writer  of  great  strength  and  dignity,  has 
failed  much,  in  this  article,  in  his  history  of  the  Peloponnesian  war. 

*  Kifluxx  fjiit  yx^t/uoiyt  S~ox.cv<rtv  hi  Trenrtio-fAivoi  <f/i  thc  k*t<l  fx'i^oi  tsvpt*t  tttT^iat 
cvvi^irHzi  t*  ox*,  7r%p-LTrh.iirioy  <ri  7r<t:r%$iv,  »c  £1  U  i"<vec  tu^v%jt  *a/  *»->■*  «V*«TOt 
yryovirc;  S'tiiio/jiita.  Tst  fxtpn  3W  /utvoi,  vopigctiv  ikxikc  at/TOTTTa;  ytyvt;8*t  txc  iv'^ytixt 
iiVToZ  rx  £a>-jv  Ktl  KstAAGVHC.  u  yig  t/c  dLwrix.*.  fA-x\i  truv&iU  x.*l  tiamoi  *i-8ic  etrt^y*t- 
*,««voc  to  £'-izv,  nee  ts  tiSu  S'i  t«  :t»k  "lvx»t  *»»■£«*•*«  hikiti  «z-st.\ii  tTiS~iix.vjot  re/f 
iLutcU  txilvots,  Tn^tm  £v  oi.um  tsrivra.;  xvrcut  htuo\oyiio-<i)i  Jto  rt  x.xt  yictv  ira\v  t*  t«{ 
«A»9si'a?  oLTiXUTovTO  7TfO(rdiv,  kxi  <nrag*7rMiV«;v   tok  biit^unlovTtv  vira.1.  tvvotiv  (*iv  y*.$ 

\lGilV    tt-TTO    /Ht^K    T&)V    0A»V    <TuV«TOI>.    iirirHfjUtY    S'i    *«)    yvmuUV    ClT^iKti    t%UV    dJlsVAT-JY      Su 

itevlihtes  @p*Xv  <ft  vc'jt's^ov  cvtuQthW^tu  t«'»  xit*  pipes   iro^ixv  ■o-gee  T»»  rat  ?>«»» 
&&&(tgl±t  Kcti  <nr/j-/v,  ex  f*iv  n-oiyt  rife  ctTrxvTov  i*r?o<  sLakyix*.  o-v/htkokxc  jta)   rrfgxSfwi, 

#TJ  S1'  C(U0/3T)1T0C  K*i  <J/*.<f>0PaC    (A'V&S  «V   T  If  i$ix.Cl]l>    HAI    fuDlitin    HX.rOTrltUO'a.C    1M*.  Xli    Tt 

ytiviun  wu  Tt>  tij>t»5»,  tx.  rut  irogiitf  \aCs7v.  Polyb.  Histoi     t'rim. 


j.ect  xxxv.]         HISTORICAL  WRITING.  397 

No  one  great  object  is  properly  pursued,  and  kept  in  view;  but  his 
narration  is  cut  down  into  small  pieces  ;  his  history  is  divided  by 
summers  and  winters;  and  we  are  every  now  and  then  leaving  trans- 
actions unfinished,  and  are  hurried  from  place  to  place,  from  Athens 
to  Sicily,  from  thence  to  Peloponnesus,  to  Corcyra,  to  Mitylene, 
that  we  may  be  told  of  what  is  going  on  in  all  these  places.  We 
have  a  great  many  disjointed  parts  and  scattered  limbs,  which  with 
difficulty  we  collect  into  one  body ;  and  through  this  faulty  distribu- 
tion and  management  of  his  subject,  that  judicious  historian  becomes 
more  tiresome,  and  less  agreeable  than  he  would  otherwise  be.  For 
these  reasons  he  is  severely  censured  by  one  of  the  best  critics  of 
antiquity,  Dionysius  of  Halicarnassus.* 

The  historian  must  not  indeed  neglect  chronological  order,  with 
a  view  to  render  his  narration  agreeable.  He  must  give  a  distinct 
account  of  the  dates,  and  of  the  coincidence  of  facts.  But  he  is 
not  under  the  necessity  of  breaking  off  always  in  the  middle  of 
transactions,  in  order  to  inform  us  of  what  was  happening  elsewhere 
at  the  same  time.  He  discovers  no  art,  if  he  cannot  form  some" con- 
nexion among  the  affairs  which  he  relates,  so  as  to  introduce  them 
in  a  proper  train.  He  will  soon  tire  the  reader,  if  he  goes  on  re- 
cording, in  strict  chronological  order,  a  multitude  of  separate  trans- 
actions, connected  by  nothing  else,  but  their  happening  at  the  same 
time. 

Though  the  history  of  Herodotus  be  of  greater  compass  than  that 
of  Thucydides,  and  comprehend  a  much  greater  variety  of  dissimilar 
parts,  he  has  been  more  fortunate  in  joining  them  together;  and 
digesting  them  into  order.  Hence  he  is  a  more  pleasing  writer,  and 
gives  a  stronger  impression  of  his  subject;  though,  in  judgment  and 

*  The  censure  which  Diori3'siiis  passes  upon  Thucydides,  is,  in  several  articles, 
carried  too  far.  He  blames  him  for  the  choice  of  his  subject,  as  not  sufficiently 
splendid  and  agreeable,  and  as  abounding'  too  much  in  crimes  and  melancholy 
events,  on  which  he  observes  that  Thucydides  loves  to  dwell.  He  is  partial  to 
Herodotus,  whom,  both  for  the  choice  and  the  conduct  of  his  subject,  he  prefers 
to  the  other  historian.  It  is  true,  that  the  subject  of  Thucydides  wants  the  gay- 
ety  and  splendour  of  that  of  Herodotus;  but  it  is  not  deficient  in  dignity.  The 
Peloponnesian  war  was  the  contest  between  two  great  rival  powers,  the  Athenian 
and  Lacedemonian  states,  for  the  empire  of  Greece.  Herodotus  loves  to  dwell  on 
prosperous  incidents,  and  retains  somewhat  of  the  amusing  manner  of  the  ancient 
poetical  historians;  but  Herodotus  wrote  to  the  imagination.  Thucydides  writes; 
to  the  understanding.  He  was  a  grave  reflecting  man,  well  acquainted  with  hu- 
man life ;  and  the  melancholy  events  and  catastrophes  which  he  records,  are  often 
both  the  most  interesting  parts  of  history,  and  the  most  improving  to  the  heart. 

The  critic's  observations  on  the  faulty  distribution  which  Thucydides  makes  of 
his  subject,  are  better  founded,  and  his  preference  of  Herodotus  in  this  respect  is 
not  unjust. — Oxx.vJ'iS'»t  fjt.ii  to/c  ^gova/c  <ix.o\isQa>v,  'HgceToi-oc  <f«  t«/c  ©fpitvai;  t*» 
orgaj/jitiTajv,  yiyina  Qxx.vS'iS'ti;  *3" •*<}>»?  x.m  <fy:ror*<>*KOAK&/iToc  jroXAaiv  \up  x.*.to.  to  dvto 
3^goc  jc=ti   ^waaivot  ytyvu/uivvv  ev  Sinpcgiic  tg7tok,  Yi.untxu;  Tag  •argoTstc  &'§»£«£  >taTa- 

UTlll,    iTi5'(£V     tfTTiTJI  TM»  KIT*  TO  BtUTO  S'WC  Itai  ^Sf^OTi    yiyVOUltUV.         UlrKXVai/Ui^dL  Jjr 

xa9«TSg  iix.ce,  mi  JusKihui;  tok  fnM/xtvct;  -crzgzx.o.Kx'jxu.iv \  Xyi/uCiCitKi  QhuvMh  /utzi 
uiroQUtv  Ai&VT/  iroMa.  iromtiti  /ut^ti  to  ev  irai/ui..  'HgscToTO)  $%  rxe  sroXXatc  x.tl  tsftv  f»o- 
Kt//*c  vTrcbiTUC  cr^cs/\0|U£va),  e-u/utceviv  vt  o-os/lhl  iWi7roi»x.iv*l. — With  regard  to  style, 
Dionysius  gives  Thucydides  the  just  praise  of  energy  and  brevity;  but  censures  him 
on  many  occasions,  not  without  reason,  for  harsh  and  obscure  expression,  deficient  in 
smoothness  and  ease. 


398 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  xxxy 


accuracy,  much  inferior  to  Thucydides.  With  digressions  and  epi- 
sodes he  abounds  ;  but  when  these  have  any  connexion  with  the 
main  subject,  and  are  insertQd  professedly  as  episodes,  the  unity  of 
the  whole  is  less  violated  by  them,  than  by  a  broken  and  scattered 
narration  of  the  principal  story.  Among  the  moderns,  the  President 
Thuanus  has,  by  attempting  to  make  the  history  of  his  own  times 
too  comprehensive,  fallen  into  the  same  error,  of  loading  the  reader 
with  a  great  variety  of  unconnected  facts,  going  on  together  in  dif- 
ferent parts  of  the  world ;  an  historian  otherwise  of  great  probity, 
candour,  and  excellent  understanding  ;  but  through  this  want  of 
unity,  more  tedious,  and  less  interesting,  than  he  would  otherwise 
have  been. 


QUESTIONS. 


What  has  our  author  now  finished ; 
and  what  has  lie  endeavoured  to  do  ? 
What  remains  to  be  done  ?  Of  this  part 
of  the  work,  what  is  observed  ;  but  of 
what  is  our  author  sensible?  What 
will  he,  therefore,  study  to  do?  What 
method  will  he  here  follow  ?  In  former 
lectures,  what  has  been  done;  and 
what  remark  follows?  On  what  does 
our  author  think  it  necessary  to  make 
some  observations,  before  he  proceeds 
farther;  and  why?  Why  are  these 
observations  the  more  necessary;  and 
why  may  they  with  propriety  be 
made  now?  What  is  a  remarkable 
phenomenon  ?  How  is  this  illustrated  ? 
What  moral  causes,  for  this,  are  obvi- 
ous ?  But  as  these  have  been  thought 
inadequate  to  the  whole  effect,  what, 
also,  have  been  assigned ;  and  what  has 
been  done  by  the  Abbe  du  Bos?  But, 
whatever  the  cause  be,  what  fact  is 
certain?  How  many  of  these  happy 
ages  have  learned  men  marked  out  ? 
What  is  the  first,  when  does  it  com- 
mence, and  till  what  time  does  it  ex- 
tend ?  Within  this  period,  whom  have 
we  ?  What  is  the  second ;  and  within 
I  lie  days  of  whom  is  it  included?  Whom 
does  it  afford  us  ?  The  third  age  is  the 
restoration  of  learning-,  under  whom  ; 
and  in  it,  who  flourished  ?  The  fourth 
comprehends  what  age,  and  in  it,  who 
flourished  in  France,  and  in  England  ? 
Wher  we  speak  comparatively  of  the 
ancients,  and  the  moderns,  what  do  we 
generally  mean  bv  _ne  ancients,  and 
what  t>y  the  moderns  ?  Why  must  any 
comparison  between  these  two  classes 
of  writers,  be  vague  and  loose  ?  Upon 
^vhat  is  the  comparison  generally  made 
to  turn  ?  Between  whom,  was  it  agi- 


tated with  much  heat,  in  France  ? 
To  this  day,  among  men  of  taste,  what 
do  we  find?  What  may,  therefore,  be 
the  effect  of  a  few  reflections  ?  Whom 
may  we  boldly  venture  to  tell,  that  he 
has  come  too  late  with  his  discovery  ? 
Of  the  reputation  of  such  writers,  what 
is  observed?  What  may  he  be  able  to 
point  out  in  their  works;  and  what  may 
he  show?  But  what  remark  follows? 
How  is  this  illustrated  ?  Of  matters  of 
mere  reasoning,  what  is  remarked?  Ac- 
cording to  what,  may  positions  that  de- 
pend upon  science,  knowledge,  and  mat- 
ters of  fact,  be  overturned  ?  For  this 
reason, what  follows;  and  what  illustra- 
tion is  given  ?  On  what  does  taste  de- 
pend ?  Why  is  it  vain  to  think  of  de- 
ceiving mankind  here,  as  in  matters  of 
philosophy  ?  Of  this  remark,  what  illus- 
tiation  is  given?  What  is  it  also  vain 
to  allege?  Of  them,  what  is  true?  But 
how  came  they  to  gain  possession  of 
colleges  and  schools  ?  Of  the  Greek  and 
Latin,  what  is  observed ;  and  what  fol- 
lows? To  what  are  the  classics  not 
indebted  for  their  fame;  and  in  con- 
sequence of  what,  did  they  become 
classics?  What  evidence  have  we  of 
this?  From  this  general  principle,  what 
may  we  boldly  and  justly  infer?  Against 
what,  however,  must  we  guard?  What 
remark  follows?  Whatever  supeiiority 
the  ancients  may  have  had  in  point  of 
genius,  yet,  in  what,  have  the  moderns 
some  advantage?  Koav  may  the  world 
be  considered  ?  To  what  have  its  im- 
provements not  always  been  in  pro- 
portion, and  why?  Yet,  when  rousei 
from  this  lethargy,  what  has  follT 
ed?  Some  happy  genius,  arising  <*. 
intervals,  would  do  what?  With  the 


I.ECT.  XXXV.] 


QUESTIONS. 


398  a 


advantage  of  a  proper  stock  of  materi- 
als, what  can  an  inferior  genius  do? 
Hence,  in  what  have  modern  philoso- 
phers an  unquestionable  superiority 
over  the  ancients ?  What  is  our  author 
also  inclined  to  think ;  and  to  what, 
perhaps,  is  this  owing  ?  Of  some  studies, 
that  relate  to  taste,  what  is  also  ob- 
served? What  instance  is  given?  Why- 
are  we  better  acquainted  with  the  na- 
ture of  government  ?  How  is  this  illus- 
trated ?  Of  the  more  complex  kinds  of 
poetry,  what  is  observed ;  and  what  il- 
lustration is  given  ?  Why  do  not  these 
points  of  superiority,  extend  as  far  as 
might  be  imagined  at  first  view  ?  To 
return  to  our  former  comparison,  what, 
not  without  reason,  may  be  said?  What 
does  this  appear  to  ibrm  ?  Among  the 
ancients,  what  do  we  find ;  and  what 
among  the  moderns  ?  How  is  this  gene- 
ral remark  to  be  understood ;  and  why  ? 
What  is  it  proper  to  observe,  and  what 
were  they  ?  Under  what  circumstances 
did  they  return  to  their  own  country  ? 
As  their  knowledge  and  improvements 
cost  them  more  labour,  what  was  the 
consequence?  What  illustrations  fol- 
low ?  Of  these  testimonies  of  public  re- 
gard, what  is  observed  ?  In  our  times, 
how  is  good  writing  considered ;  and 
what  illustration  is  given?  What  cir- 
cumstances have  contributed  to  spread 
a  mediocrity  of  genius  over  all  wri- 
ters? What  is  Sir  William  Temple:s 
opinion  of  the  effect  of  the  multitude 
of  assistances  which  we  have  for  all 
kinds  of  composition  ?  Repeat  the  pas- 
sage here  introduced  from  him. 

Among  the  ancients,  for  what  must 
we  look ;  and  to  the  moderns,  for  what 
must  we  have  recourse  ?  How  do  they 
compare  in  works  of  taste  ;  and  how  is 
this  illustrated  ?  In  history,  what  may 
safely  be  asserted  ?  Of  the  drama,  ivhat 
is  observed ;  and  of  elegies,  pastoral 
and  lyric  poetry,  what  is  said  ?  What 
is  remarked  of  the  name  of  Horace  ? 
What  contributes  to  render  him  one  of 
the  very  few  authors  whom  one  never 
tires  of  reading ;  and  of  him,  what  is 
further  observed  ?  To  such  as  wish  to 
form  their  taste,  what  is  warmly  re- 
commended; and  for  what  reason? 
Who  has  great  reason  to  suspect  his 
3wn  taste  ?  And  of  what  is  our  author 
persuaded?  Who,  only,  undervalue 
them  ?  At  the  same  time,  from  what  is 
a  just  and  high  regard  for  the  prime 
writers  of  antiquity,  to  be  distinguifh- 


ed?  What  remarks  follow?  Why 
ought  we,  therefore,  to  read  then,  with 
a  distinguishing  eye?  After  these  re- 
flections on  the  ancients  and  mod°rns, 
to  what  does  our  author  proceed?  What 
is  the  most  general  division  of  the  dif- 
ferent kinds  of  composition  ?  Why  do 
these  require  to  be  separately  consider- 
ed ?  With  what  does  our  author  begin ; 
and  of  what  has  he  already  spoken  ? 
What  are  the  remaining  species  of 
prose  compositions ;  and  what  shall  be 
first  considered  ?  Of  it,  what  is  obser- 
ved ?  What  is  the  office  of  an  historian? 
Of  this  object,  what  is  remarked?  As 
the  primary  end  of  history  is  to  record 
truth,  what  are  the  fundamental  quali- 
ties of  an  historian  ?  How  is  this  illus- 
trated ?  At  the  same  time,  what  record 
of  facts  only,  is  entitled  to  the  name  of 
history  ?  Of  the  nature  of  the  facts 
themselves,  what  is  observed?  What 
is  the  great  end  of  history;  and  for 
what  is  it  designed  ?  What  remark  fol- 
lows ?  What  is  its  object ;  and  whar 
must  it  not,  therefore,  be?  What  are 
essential  characteristics  of  history  ;  anci 
what  should  not  be  employed  ?  What 
character  must  the  writer  sustain  ?  A . 
the  same  time,  with  what  is  historical 
information  not  inconsistent?  What 
does  it  admit ;  but  of  it,  what  is  obser- 
ved ?  What  does  historical  composition 
comprehend  ?  Of  these,  what  is  re- 
marked? Histories,  are  of  how  many 
kinds ;  and  what  are  they  ?  In  the  con- 
duct  and  management  of  his  subject, 
what  is  the  first  attention  requisite  in 
an  historian  ?  Of  the  effect  of  this,  what 
is  observed;  and  what  remark  follows  ? 
Where  must  this  unity  necessarily  be 
less  perfect?  Yet,  even  there,  how  does 
it  appear,  that  some  decree  of  it  can  be 
preserved?  How  is  this  remark  fully 
illustrated  ?  Of  all  the  ancient  general 
historians,  who  had  the  most  exact  idea 
of  this  quality  of  historical  composition  1 
From  what  does  this  appear:  and  in 
that  account,  what  does  he  observe? 
Of  this  action,  what  does  he  say?  In 
another  place,  on  what  doea  he  con- 
gratulate himself;  and  what  does  he 
remark  ?  Whereupon,  he  adds  what ; 
and  what  comparison  does  he  intro- 
duce? Of  such  as  write  the  history  of 
some  particular  great  transaction,  what 
is  observed  ?  What  are  instances  of  par- 
ticular histories,  where  the  unity  oi 
historical  narration  is  perfectly  weil 
maintained?  What   are  the  remarks 


398  b  HISTORICAL  WRITING.        [iect.  x&xvi. 

made  on  Thucydides'  history  of  thej  ANALYSIS. 

Peloponnesian  war"?  For  these  reasons,  ,  , 

by   whom   is   he   severely    censured?  *  The  ancients  and  the  moden.a  roir-pared. 

««t.  .  ,        .  ii-  x-      I  a.  A  remarkable  phenomenon. 

With  a  view  to  render  his  narration  B   Four  of  these  happy  ages 


agreeable,  what  must  not  the  historian 
neglect?  Of  what  must  he  give  a  dis- 
tinct account?  But  what  is  he  not 
under  the  necessity  of  doing?  If  he 
cannot  do  what,  does  he  discover  no  art; 
and  by  what  method  will  he  soon  tire 
the  reader  ?  Of  the  history  of  Herodo- 
tus, what  is. observed?  Hence,  what 
follows?  With  what  does  he  abound; 
and  what  is  said  of  them?  Of  the 
President  Thuanus,  and  of  the  history 
of  his  own  times,  what  is  observed  ? 


The  fallacy  of  attempting'  to  riccry  the 
ancient  classics. 
D.  A  caution  against  an  implicit  venera- 
tion for  them. 

e.  Favourable  circumstances  ol  ancient 

times. 

f.  Good  writing  now,  not  so  tEJIlCClt  an 

attainment. 
a.  The  ancient  classics  recommended, 
2.  Historical  writing. 
a.  The  office  of  an  historian. 
a.  Attention  to  unity. 

(a.)  Instances  of  its  observance- 
(b.)  Instances  of  its  violation. 


LECTURE  XXXVI. 


HISTORICAL  WRITING. 

After  making  some  observations  on  the  controversy  which  has 
been  often  carried  on  concerning  the  comparative  merit  of  the 
ancients  and  the  moderns,  I  entered,  hi  the  last  lecture,  on  the  consi- 
deration of  historical  writing.  The  general  idea  of  history  is,  a 
record  of  truth  for  the  instruction  of  mankind.  Hence  arise  the 
primary  qualities  required  in  a  good  historian,  impartiality,  fidelity, 
gravity,  and  dignity.  What  I  principally  considered,  was  the  unity 
which  belongs  to  this  sort  of  composition  ;  the  nature  of  which  I 
have  endeavoured  to  explain. 

I  proceed  next  to  observe,  that  in  order  to  fulfil  the  end  of  history, 
the  author  must  study  to  trace  to  their  springs  the  actions  and  events 
which  he  records.  Two  things  are  especially  necessary  for  his  doing 
this  successfully  ;  a  thorough  acquaintance  with  human  nature,  and 
political  knowledge,  or  acquaintance  with  government.  The  former  is 
necessary  to  account  for  the  conduct  of  individuals,  and  to  give  just 
views  of  the  character ;  the  latter,  to  account  for  the  revolutions  of 
government,  and  the  operation  of  political  causes  on  public  affairs. 
Both  must  concur,  in  order  to  form  a  complete  instructive  historian. 

With  regard  to  the  latter  article,  political  knowledge,  the  an- 
cient writers  wanted  some  advantages  which  the  moderns  enjoy ; 
from  whom,  upon  that  account,  we  have  a  title  to  expect  more 
accurate  and  precise  information.  The  world,  as  I  formerly  hint- 
ed, was  more  shut  up  in  ancient  times,  than  it  is  now ;  there  was 
then  less  communication  among  neighbouring  states,  and,  by  con- 
sequence, less  knowledge  of  one  another's  affairs  ;  no  intercourse 
by  establishing  posts,  or  by  ambassadors  resident  at  different  courts 
The  knowledge  and  materials  of  the  ancient  historians,  were 
thereby  more  limited  and  circumscribed ;  and  it  is  to  be  obser- 
ved too,  that  tl.ey   wrote  for  their  own  countrymen  only;    thef 


tECT.  xxxvi.]         HISTORICAL  WRITING.  399 

had  no  idea  of  writing  for  the  instruction  of  foreigners,  whom  they 
despised,  or  of  the  world  in  general ;  and  hence,  they  are  .less 
attentive  to  convey  all  that  knowledge  with  regard  to  domestic 
policy,  which  we,  in  distant  times,  would  desire  to  have  learned 
from  them.  Perhaps  also,  though  in  ancient  ages  men  were  abun- 
dantly animated  with  the  love  of  liberty,  yet  the  full  extent  of  the 
influence  of  government,  and  of  political  causes,  was  not  then  so 
thoroughly  scrutinized,  as  it  has  been  in  modern  times  ;  when  a  lon- 
ger experience  of  allthe  different  modes  of  government,  has  rendered 
men  more  enlightened  and  intelligent,  with  respect  to  public  affairs. 

To  these  reasons  it  is  owing,  that  though  the  ancient  historians 
set  before  us  the  particular  facts  which  they  relate,  in  a  very  dis- 
tinct and  beautiful  manner,  yet  sometimes  they  do  not  give  us 
a  clear  view  of  all  the  political  causes,  which  affected  the  situation 
of  affairs  of  which  they  treat.  From  the  Greek  historians,  we 
are  able  to  form  but  an  imperfect  notion  of  the  strength,  the  wealth, 
and  the  revenues  of  the  different  Grecian  states ;  of  the  causes 
of  several  of  those  revolutions  that  happened  in  their  government; 
or  of  their  separate  connexions  zrA  interfering  interests.  In  writing 
the  history  of  the  Romans,  Livy  had  surely  the  most  ample  field 
for  displaying  political  knowledge  concerning  the  rise  of  their 
greatness,  and  the  advantages  or  defects  of  their  government. 
Yet  the  instruction  of  these  important  articles,  which  he  affords, 
is  not  considerable.  An  elegant  writer  he  is,  and  a  beautiful  re- 
lator of  facts,  if  ever  there  was  one;  but  by  no  means  distinguish- 
ed for  profoundness  or  penetration.  Sallust,  when  writing  the 
history  of  a  conspiracy  against  the  government,  which  ought  to 
have  been  altogether  a  political  history,  has  evidently  attended  more 
to  the  elegance  of  narration,  and  the  painting  of  characters,  than 
to  the  unfolding  of  secret  causes  and  springs.  Instead  of  that  com- 
plete information,  which  we  would  naturally  have  expected  from 
him  of  the  state  of  parties  in  Rome,  and  of  that  particular  conjunc- 
ture of  affairs,  which  enable  so  desperate  a  profligate  as  Catiline  to 
become  so  formidable  to  government,  he  has  given  us  little  more 
than  a  general  declamatory  account  of  the  luxury  and  corruption  of 
manners  in  that  age,  compared  with  the  simplicity  of  former  times. 

I  by  no  means,  however,  mean  to  censure  all  the  ancient  histori- 
ans as  defective  in  political  information.  No  historians  can  be  more 
instructive  than  Thucydides,  Polybius,  and  Tacitus.  Thucydides  is 
grave,  intelligent,  and  judicious ;  always  attentive  to  give  very  exact 
information  concerning  every  operation  which  he  relates;  and  to 
show  the  advantages  or  disadvantages  of  every  plan  that  was  propos- 
ed, and  every  measure  that  was  pursued.  Polybius  excels  in  com- 
prehensive political  views,  in  penetration  into  great  systems,  and  in 
his  profound  and  distinct  knowledge  of  all  military  affairs.  Taci- 
tus is  eminent  for  his  knowledge  of  the  human  heart;  is  sentimen- 
tal and  refined  in  a  high  degree ;  conveys  much  instruction  with 
respect  to  political  matters,  but  more  with  respect  to  human  nature 


400  HISTORICAL  WRITING.  [lect.  xxxvt 

But  when  we  demand  from  the  historian  profound  and  instructive 
riews  of  his  subject,  it  is  not  meant  that  he  should  be  frequently  inter- 
rupting the  course  of  his  history,  with  his  own  reflections  and  specu- 
lations. He  should  give  us  all  the  information  that  is  necessary  for 
our  fully  understanding  the  affairs  which  he  records.  He  should 
make  us  acquainted  with  the  political  constitution,  the  force,  the  re- 
venues, the  interna]  state  of  the  country  of  which  he  writes;  and 
with  its  interests  and  connexions  in  respect  of  neighbouring  coun- 
tries He  should  place  us,  as  on  an  elevated  station,  whence  we 
may  have  an  extensive  prospect  of  all  the  causes  that  co-operate  in 
bringing  forward  the  events  which  are  related.  But  having  put  into 
our  hands  all  the  proper  materials  for  judgment,  he  should  not  be 
too  prodigal  of  his  own  opinions  and  reasonings.  When  an  histori- 
an is  much  given  to  dissertation,  and  is  ready  to  philosophize  and 
speculate  on  all  the  records,  a  suspicion  naturally  arises,  that  he 
will  be  in  hazard  of  adapting  his  narrative  of  facts  to  favour  some 
system  which  he  has  formed  to  himself.  It  is  rather  by  fair  and 
judicious  narration  that  history  should  instruct  us,  than  by  deliver- 
ing instruction  in  an  avowed  and  direct  manner.  On  some  occa- 
sions when  doubtful  points  require  to  be  scrutinized,  or  when  some 
great  event  is  in  agitation,  concerning  the  causes  or  circumstances 
of  which  mankind  have  been  much  divided,  the  narrative  may  be  al- 
lowed to  stand  still  for  a  little ;  the  historian  may  appear,  and  may 
with  propriety  enter  into  some  weighty  discussion.  But  he  must 
take  care  not  to  cloy  his  readers  with  such  discussions,  by  repeating 
them  too  often. 

When  observations  are  to  be  made  concerning  human  nature  in 
general,  or  the  peculiarities  of  certain  characters,  if  the  historian  can 
artfully  incorporate  such  observations  with  his  narrative,  they  will 
have  a  better  effect  than  when  they  are  delivered  as  formal  detach- 
ed reflections.  For  instance:  in  the  life  of  Agricola,  Tacitus,  speak- 
ing of  Domitian's  treatment  of  Agricola,  makes  this  observation  : 
'Propium  humani  ingenii  est,  odisse  quern  laeseris.'*  The  obser- 
vation is  just  and  well  applied ;  but  the  form  in  which  it  stands,  is 
abstract  and  philosophical.  A  thought  of  the  same  kind  has  a  finer 
effect  elsewhere  in  the  same  historian,  when  speaking  of  the  jea- 
lousies which  Germanicus  knew  to  be  entertained  against  him  by 
Livia  and  Tiberius  :  '  Anxius,'  says  he,  '  occultis  in  se  patrui  aviae- 
que  odiis,  quorum  causae  acriores  quia  iniquse.'t  Here  a  profound 
moral  observation  is  made;  but  it  is  made,  without  the  appeal ance 
of  making  it  in  form  ;  it  is  introduced  as  a  part  of  the  narration,  in 
assigning  a  reason  for  the  anxiety  of  Germanicus.  We  have  another 
instance  of  the  same  kind,  in  the  account  which  he  gives  of  a  mutiny 
raised  against  Rufus,  who  was  a  'Praefectus  Castrorum/  on  account 
of  the  severe  labour  which  he  imposed  on  the  soldiers.  'Quippe 
Rufus,  diu  manipularis,  dein  centurio,  mox  castris  praefectus,  anti- 

•  '  It  belongs  to  human  nature  to  hate  the  man  whom  you  ha/e  injured.' 

t  '  Uneasy  in  his  mind,  on  account  of  the  concealed  hatred  ertertained  against  hi» 

by  his  uncle  an^  grandmother,  which  was  the  more  bitter.because  the  cause  of  it  wu 

aniust' 


lect.  xxxvi.]         HISTORICAL  WRITING  401 

quam  duramque  militiam  revocabat,  vetus  operis  &  laboris,  et  eo 
vmmitior  quia  toleraverat.'*  There  was  room  for  turning  this  into 
a  general  observation,  that  they  who  have  been  educated  and  har- 
dened in  toils,  are  commonly  found  to  be  the  most  severe  in  requir- 
ing the  like  toils  from  others.  But  the  manner  in  which  Tacitus  in- 
troduces this  sentiment  as  a  stroke  in  the  character  of  Rufus,  gives  it 
much  more  life  and  spirit.  This  historian  has  a  particular  talent  of 
intermixing  after  this  manner,  with  the  course  of  his  narrative, 
many  striking  sentiments  and  useful  observations. 

Let  us  next  proceed  to  consider  the  proper  qualities  of  his 
torical  narration.      It  is  obvious,  that  on  the  manner  of  narration, 
much  depends,as  the  first  notion  of  history  is  the  recital  of  past  facts-, 
and  how  much  one  mode  of  recital  may  be  preferable  to  another,  we 
shall  soon  be  convinced,  by  thinking  of  the  different  effects  which  the 
same  story,  when  told  by  two  different  persons,  is  found  to  produce. 
The  first  virtue  of  historical  narration,  is  clearness,  order,  and 
due  connexion.     To  attain  this,  the  historian  must  be  completely 
master  of  his  subject;  he  must  see  the  whole  as  at  one  view;  and 
comprehend  the  chain  and  dependence  of  all  its  parts,  that  he  may 
introduce  every  thing  in  its  proper  place;  that  he  may  lead  us 
smoothly  along  the  track  of  affairs  which  are  recorded,  and  may 
always  give  us  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  how  one  event  arises  out 
of  another.    Without  this,  there  can  be  neither  pleasure  nor  instruc- 
tion, in  reading  history.     Much  for  this  end  will  depend  on  the 
observance  of  that  unity  in  the  general  plan  and  conduct,  which, 
in  the  preceding  lecture,  I  recommended.    Much  too  will  depend  on 
the  proper  management  of  transactions,  which  forms  one  of  the  chief 
ornaments  of  this  kind  of  writing,  and  is  one  of  the  most  difficult 
in  execution.     Nothing  tries  an  historian's  abilities  more,  than  so 
to  lay  his  train  beforehand,  as  to  make  us  pass  naturally  and  agree- 
ably from  one  part  of  his  subject  to  another;  to  employ  no  clumsy 
and  awkward  junctures;  and  to  contrive  ways  and  means  of  form- 
ing some  union  among  transactions,  which  seem  to  be  most  widely 
separated  from  one  another. 

In  the  next  place,  as  history  is  a  very  dignified  species  of  com- 
position, gravity  must  always  be  maintained  in  the  narration.  There 
must  be  no  meanness  nor  vulgarity  in  the  style;  no  quaint  nor  col- 
loquial phrases;  no  affectation  of  pertness,  or  of  wit.  The  smart, 
or  the  sneering  manner  of  telling  a  story,  is  inconsistent  with  the 
historical  character.  I  do  not  say,  that  an  historian  is  never  to  let 
himself  down.  He  may  sometimes  do  it  with  propriety,  in  order  to 
diversify  the  strain  of  his  narration,  which,  if  it  be  perfectly  uni- 
form, is  apt  to  become  tiresome.  But  he  should  be  careful  nevei 
to  descend  too  far;  and,  on  occasions  where  a  light  or  ludicrous 
mecdote  is  proper  to  be  recorded,  it  is  generally  better  to  throw 

*  «  For  Rufus.  who  bad  long  been  a  common  soldier,  afterwards  a  centurion,  and  al 
Jjp.r-lh  a  i;eijeral  officer,  restored  the  severe  military  discipline  of  ancient  tunes 
Crown  oi-f  amidst  toils  and  labours,  he  was  more  rigid  in  imposing  them,  because  hr 
fcn-J  been  accustomed    a  bear  them.' 

3M  51 


402  HISTORICAL  WRITING.  [lect.  xxxvi. 

it  into  a  note,  than  to  hazard  becoming  too  familiar,  by  introducing 
it  into  the  body  of  the  work. 

But  an  historian  may  possess  these  qualities  of  being  perspi- 
cuous, distinct,  and  grave,  and  may  notwithstanding  be  a  dull 
writer ;  in  which  case,  we  shall  reap  little  benefit  from  his  labours. 
We  shall  read  him  without  pleasure ;  or,  most  probably,  we  shall 
soon  give  over  reading  him  at  all.  He  must  therefore  study  to  ren 
der  his  narration  interesting;  which  is  the  quality  that  ckiefiy  dis 
tinguishes  a  writer  of  genius  and  eloquence. 

Two  things  are  especially  conducive  to  this;  the  first  is,  a  just 
medium  in  the  conduct  of  narration,  between  a  rapid  or  crowded 
recital  of  facts,  and  a  prolix  detail.  The  former  embarrasses,  and 
the  latter  tires  us.  An  historian  that  would  interest  us,  must  know 
when  to  be  concise,  and  where  he  ought  to  enlarge ;  passing  con- 
cisely over  slight  and  unimportant  events,  but  dwelling  on  such  as 
are  striking  and  considerable  in  their  nature,  or  pregnant  with  con- 
sequences ;  preparing  beforehand  our  attention  to  them,  and  bring- 
ing them  forth  into  the  most  full  and  conspicuous  light.  The  next 
thing  he  must  attend  to,  is  a  proper  selection  of  the  circum- 
stances belonging  to  those  events  which  he  chooses  to  relate  fully. 
General  facts  make  a  slight  impression  on  the  mind.  It  is  by 
means  of  circumstances  and  particulars  properly  chosen,  that  a 
narration  becomes  interesting  and  affecting  to  the  reader.  These 
give  life,  body,  and  colouring,  to  the  recital  of  facts,  and  enable  us 
to  behold  them  as  present,  and  passing  before  our  eyes.  It  is  this 
employment  of  circumstances,  in  narration,  that  is  properly  termed 
historical  painting. 

In  all  these  virtues  of  narration,  particularly  in  this  last,  of  pic- 
turesque descriptive  narration,  several  of  the  ancient  historians  emi- 
nently excel.  Hence,  the  pleasure  that  is  found  in  reading  Herodo- 
tus, Thucydides,  Xenophon,  Livy,  Sallust,  and  Tacitus.  They  are 
all  conspicuous  for  the  art  of  narration.  Herodotus  is,  at  all  times, 
an  agreeable  writer,  and  relates  every  thing  with  that  naivete  and 
si  mplicity  of  manner,  which  never  fails  to  interest  the  reader.  Though 
the  manner  of  Thucydides  be  more  dry  and  harsh,  yet,  on  great  oc- 
casions, as  when  he  is  giving  an  account  of  the  plague  of  Athens, 
the  siege  of  Platsea,  the  sedition  in  Corcyra,  the  defeat  of  the  Athe- 
nians in  Sicily,  he  displays  a  very  strong  and  masterly  power  of  de- 
scription. Xenophon's  Cyropsedia,  and  his  Anabasis,  or  Retreat  of 
the  Ten  Thousand,  are  extremely  beautiful.  The  circumstances 
are  finely  selected,  and  the  narration  is  easy  and  engaging  ;  but  his 
Hellenics,  or  Continuation  of  the  History  of  Thucydides,  is  a  much 
inferior  work.  Sallust's  Art  of  Historical  Painting,  in  his  Catilina- 
rian,  but,  more  especially, in  hi^  jugurthine  War,  is  well  known; 
though  his  style  is  liable  to  censure,  as  too  studied  and  affected. 

Livy  is  more  unexceptionable  in  his  manner,  and  is  excelled  by 
no  historian  whatever  in  the  art  of  narration :  several  remarkable- 
examples  might  be  given  from  him.  His  account,  for  instance,  o[ 
the  famous  defeat  of  the  Roman  army  by  the  Samnites,  at  the  Fur- 


lect.  xxxvi.]  HISTORICAL  WRITING.  403 

C3e  Caudinae,  in  the  beginning  of  the  ninth  book,  affords  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  exemplifications  of  historical  painting  that  is  any 
where  to  be  met  with.     We  have,first,  an  exact  description  of  the 
narrow  pass  between  two  mountains,  into  which  the  enemy  had  de- 
coyed the  Romans.     When  they  find  themselves  caught,  and  no 
hope  of  escape  left,  we  are  made  to  see,  first,  their  astonishment, 
next  their  indignation,  and  then,  their  dejection,  painted  in  the  most 
lively  manner,  by  such  circumstances  and  actions  as  were  natural  to 
persons  in  their  situation.     The  restless  and  unquiet  manner  in 
which  they  pass  the  night  3  the  consultations  of  the  Samnites ;  the 
various  measures  proposed  to  be  taken ;  the  messages  between  the 
two  armies,  all  heighten  the  scene.     At  length,  in  the  morning,  the 
consuls  return  to  the  camp,  and  inform  them  that  they  could  receive 
no  other  terms  but  that  of  surrendering  their  arms,  and  passing  un- 
der the  yoke,  which  was  considered  as  the  last  mark  of  ignominy 
for  a  conquered  army.     Part  of  what  then  follows,  I  shall  give  in 
the  author's  own  words.    '  Redintegravit  luctum  in  castris  consulum 
adventus;  ut  vix  ab  iis  abstinerentmanus,  quorum  temeritate  in  eum 
locum  deducti  essent.    Alii  alios  intueri,  contemplari  arma  mox  tra- 
denda,  &.  inermes  futuras  dextras;  proponere  sibimet  ipsi  ante  ocu- 
los,  jugum  hostile,  et  ludibria  victoris,  et  vultus  superbos,  et  per  ar- 
matos  inermium  iter.     Inde  faedi  agminis  miserabilem  viam;  per 
sociorum  urbes  reditum  in  patriam  ac  parentes  quo  saspe  ipsi  trium 
phantes  venissent.     Se  solos  sine  vulnere,  sine  ferro,  sine  acie  vie 
los;  sibi  non  stringere  licuisse    gladios,  non  manum   cum  hoste 
conserere  j  sibi  nequicquam  arma,  nequicquam  vires,  nequicquam 
animos   datos.     Hsec  frementibus,  hora   fatalis   ignominice   adve- 
tiit.     Jamprimum  cum  singulis  vestimentis,  inermes  extra  vallum 
abirejussi.     Turn  a  consulibus  abire  lictores  jussi,  paludamentaque 
detracta.     Tantam  hoc  inter  ipsos,  qui  paulo  ante  eos  dedendos,  la- 
cerandosque  censuerant,  miserationem  fecit,  ut,  suas  quisque  conditio 
nis  oblitus,  ab  ilia  deformatione  tantse  majestatis  velut  ab  nefando 
spectaculo,  averteret  oculos.     Primi  consules,  prope  seminudi,  sub 
jugum  missi,'*  &c.    The  rest  of  the  story,which  it  would  be  too  long 

*  '  The  arrival  of  the  consuls  in  the  camp,  wrought  up  their  passions  to  such  a  de- 
gree, that  they  could  scarcely  abstain  from  laying  violent  hands  on  them,  as  by  their 
rashness  they  had  been  brought  into  this  situation.  They  began  to  look  on  one 
another  ;  to  cast  a  melancholy  eye  on  their  arms,  which  were  now  to  be  surren- 
dered, and  on  their  right  hands,  which  were  to  become  defenceless.  The  yoke 
under  which  they  were  to  pass  ;  the  scoffs  of  the  conquerors  ;  and  their  haughty 
looks,  when  disarmed  and  stripped,  they  should  be  led  through  the  hostile  lines  ; 
a!l  rose  before  their  eyes.  They  then  looked  forward  to  the  sad  journey  which 
awaited  them,  when  they  were  to  pass  as  a  vanquished  and  disgraced  army  through 
the  territories  of  their  allies,  by  whom  they  had  often  been  beheld  returning  in 
triumph  to  their  families  and  native  land.  They  alone,  they  muttered  to  one 
another,  without  an  engagement,  without  a  single  blow,  had  been  conquered.  To 
their  hard  fate  it  fell,  never  to  have  had  it  in  their  power  to  draw  a  sword,  or  to 
look  an  enemy  in  the  face;  to  them  only,  arms,  strength,  and  courage,  had  been 
given  in  vain.  While  they  were  thus  giving  vent  to  their  indignation,  the  fatal 
moment  of  their  ignominy  arrived.  First,  they  are  commanded  to  come  forth 
from  the  camp,  vniliout  armour,  and  in  a  single  garment.  Next,  orders  were 
given,  that  the  consuls  should  be  left  without  their  lictors,  and  that  they  should 
0*  stripped  of  their  robes.  Such  commiseration  did  this  affront  excite  amonj? 
them,   who,  but  a  little   before,  had  been  for  delivering    up    those  very  consuls    to 


#04  HISTORICAL  WRITING.         [lect  xxxvj. 

to  insert,  is  carried  on  with  the  same  beauty,  and  full  of  picturesque 
circumstances.* 

Tacitus  is  another  author  eminent  for  historical  painting,  though 
in  a  manner  altogether  different  from  that  of  Livy.  Livy's  descrip- 
tions are  more  full,  more  plain,  and  natural;  those  of  Tacitus  con- 
sist in  a  few  bold  strokes.  He  selects  one  or  two  remarkable  cir- 
cumstances, and  sets  them  before  us  in  a  strong,  and,  generally,  in 
a  new  and  uncommon  light.  Such  is  the  following  picture  of  the 
situation  of  Rome,  and  of  the  emperor  Galba,  when  Otho  was 
advancing  against  him:  'Agebatur  hue  illuc  Galba,  vario  turbae 
fluctuantis  impulsu,  completis  undique  basilicis  et  templis,  lugubri 
prospectu.  Neque  populi  aut  plebis  ulla  vox;  sed  attoniti  vultus, 
et  conversse  ad  omnia  aures.  Non  tumultus.  non  quies;  sed  quale 
magni  metus,  et  magnae  irae,  silentium  est.'t  No  image,  in  any  po- 
et, is  more  strong  and  expressive  than  this  last  stroke  of  the  descrip- 
tion :  '  Non  tumultus,  non  quies,  sed  quale,'  &c.  This  is  a  concep- 
tion of  the  sublime  kind,  and  discovers  high  genius.  Indeed,  through- 
out all  his  work,  Tacitus  shows  the  hand  of  a  master.  As  he  is 
profound  in  reflection,  so  he  is  striking  in  description,  and  pathetic 
in  sentiment.  The.  philosopher,  the  poet,  and  the  historian,  all 
meet  in  him.  Though  the  period  of  which  he  writes  may  be  reck 
oned  unfortunate  for  an  historian,  he  has  made  it  afford  us  many  in- 
teresting exhibitions  of  human  nature.  The  relations  which  he 
gives  of  the  deaths  of  several  eminent  personages,  are  as  affecting 
as  the  deepest  tragedies.  He  paints  with  a  glowing  pencil ;  and 
possesses,  beyond  all  writers,  the  talent  of  painting,  not  to  the  ima- 
gination merely,  but  to  the  heart.     With  many  of  the  most  distin- 

the  enemy,  and   for  putting  them  to  death,  that   everyone   forgot  his  own   condition;- 
and  turned   his  eyes  aside  from  this  infamous   disgrace,  suffered  by  the  consular  dig- 
nity, as  from  a  spectacle  which  was  too  detestable  to  be  beheld.     The  consuls,  almost 
half  naked,  were  first  made  to  pass  under  the  yoke,'&.c. 

*  The  description  which  Casar  gives  of  the  consternation  occasioned  in  his 
camp,  by  the  accounts  which  were  spread  among  his  troops,  of  the  ferocity,  the 
size,  and  the  courage  of  the  Germans,  affords  an  instance  of  historical  painting, 
executed  in  a  simple  manner  ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  exhibiting  a  natural  and 
lively  scene.  '  Dum  paucos  dies  ad  Vesontionem  moratur,  ex  percunctatione  nos 
trorum,  vocibusque  Gallorum  ac  mercatorum,  qui  ingenti  magnitudine  corporum 
Germanos,  incredibili  virtute,  atque  exercitatione  in  armis  esse  praedicabar.t  , 
ssepe  numero  sese  cum  iis  congressos,  ne  vultum  quidem  atque  aciem  oculorum 
ferre  potuisse ;  tantus  subito  terror  omnem  exercitum  occupavit,  ut  non  medio- 
criter  omnium  mentes  animosque  perturbaret.  Hie  primum  ortus  est  a  tribunis 
militum,  ac  prsfectis,  reliquisque  qui  ex  urbe,  amicitis  causa,  Casarem  secuti, 
suum  periculum  miserabantur,  quod  non  magnum  in  re  militari  usum  habebant- 
quorum  alius,  alia  causa  illata  quam  sibi  ad  proficiscendum  necessariam  esse  dice 
ret,  pctebat  ut  ejus  voluntate  discedere  liceret.  Nonnulli  pudore  adducti,  ut  timo 
ris  suspicionem  vitarent,  remanebant.  Hi  neque  vultum  fingere,  neque  interdum 
lacrymas  tenere  poterant.  Abd'.ti  in  tabernaculis,  aut  suum  fatum  querebantur, 
aut  cum  familiaribus  suis,  commune  periculum  miserabantur.  Vulgo,  totis  castris  tes 
tamenta  obsignabantur.'  De  Bell  Gall.  L.  I. 

f  '  Galba  was  driven  to  and  fro  by  the  tide  of  the  multitude,  shoving  him  from 
place  to  place.  The  temples  and  public  buildings  were  fdled  with  crowds,  of  a  dis- 
mal appearance.  No  clamours  were  heard,  either  from  the  citizens,  or  from  the  rab- 
ble. Their  countenances  were  filled  with  consternation:  their  ears  were  employed  *n 
listening  w  ith  anxiety.  It  was  not  a  tumult ;  it  was  not  quietness  :  it  was  the  silence  \rf 
terror,  and  of  wrath.' 


«5CT.  xxxvi.J         HISTORICAL  WRITING  405 

guished  beauties,  he  is,  at  the  same  time,  not  a  perfect  model  for 
nistory,  and  such  as  have  formed  themselves  upon  him,  have  seldom 
been  successful.  He  is  to  be  admired,  rather  than  imitated.  In 
his  reflections  he  is  too  refined;  in  his  style,  too  concise,  sometimes 
quaint  and  affected,  often  abrupt  and  obscure.  History  seems  to  re 
quire  a  more  natural,  flowing,  and  popular  manner. 

The  ancients  employed  one  embellishment  of  history  which  th 
moderns  have  laid  aside;  I  mean  orations,  which. on  weighty  occa 
sions,  they  put  into  the  mouths  of  some  of  their  chief  personages. 
By  means  of  these,  they  diversified  their  history;  they  conveyed 
both  moral  and  political  instruction;  and,  by  the  opposite  arguments 
which  were  employed,  they  gave  us  a  view  of  the  sentiments  of  dif- 
ferent parties.  Thucydides  was  the  first  who  introduced  this  me- 
thod. The  orations  with  which  his  history  abounds,  and  those 
of  some  other  Greek  and  Latin  historians,  are  among  the  most  valu- 
able remains  which  we  have  of  ancient  eloquence.  How  beautiful 
soever  they  are,  it  may  be  much  questioned,  I  think,  whether  they 
find  a  proper  place  in  history.  I  am  rather  inclined  to  think,  that  they 
are  unsuitable  to  it;  for  they  form  a  mixture  which  is  unnatural  in 
history,  of  fiction  with  truth.  We  know  that  these  orations  are  en 
tirely  of  the  author's  own  composition,  and  that  he  has  introduced 
some  celebrated  person  haranguing  in  a  public  place,  purely  that  he 
might  have  an  opportunity  of  showing  his  own  eloquence,  or  deliver 
ing  his  own  sentiments,  under  the  name  of  that  person.  This  is  & 
sort  of  poetical  liberty  which  does  not  suit  the  gravity  of  history, 
throughout  which  an  air  of  the  strictest  truth  should  always  reign. 
Orations  may  be  an  embellishment  to  history;  such  might  also  po- 
etical compositions  be,  introduced  under  the  name  of  some  of  the 
personages  mentioned  in  the  narration,  who  were  known  to  have 
possessed  poetical  talents.  But  neither  the  one  nor  the  other,  finds 
a  proper  place  in  history.  Instead  of  inserting  formal  orations,  the 
method  adopted  by  later  writers  seams  better  and  more  natural; 
that  of  the  historian,  on  some  great  occasion,  delivering,  in  his  own 
person,  the  sentiments  and  reasonings  of  the  opposite  parties,  or  the 
substance  of  what  was  understood  to  be  spoken  in  some  public  as- 
sembly ;  which  he  may  do  without  the  liberty  of  fiction. 

The  drawing  of  characters  is  one  of  the  most  splendid,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  one  of  the  most  difficult  ornaments  of  historical  composi 
tion.     For  characters  are  generally  considered,  as  professed  exhibi 
tions  of  fine  writing;  and  an  historian,  who  seeks  to  shine  in  them,  i<* 
frequently  in  danger  of  carrying  refinement  to  excess,  from  a  desire 
of  appearing  very  profound  and  penetrating.     He  brings  together  so 
many  contrasts,  and  subtile  oppositions  of  qualities,  that  we  are 
rather  dazzled  with  sparkling  expressions,  than  entertained  with  any 
clear  conception  of  a  human  character.     A  writer  who  would  cha- 
racterize in  an  instructive  and  masterly  manner,  should  be  simple  in 
his  stvle,  and  should  avoid  all  quaintness  and  affectation:  at  the 
same  time,  not  contenting  himself  with  giving  us  general  outlines 
only,  but  descending  into  those  peculiarities  which  mark  a  charac 
ter,in  its  most  strong  and  distinctive  features.    The  Greek  historians 


406  HISTORICAL  WRITING.         [lect.  xxxvi 

sometimes  give  eulogiums,  but  rarely  draw  full  and  professed  cha- 
racters. The  two  ancient  authors  who  have  laboured  this  part  of 
historical  composition  most,  are  Sallust  and  Tacitus. 

As  history  is  a  species  of  writing  designed  for  the  instruction  of 
mankind,  sound  morality  should  always  reign  in  it.  Both  in  describ- 
ing characters,  and  in  relating  transactions,  the  author  should  al 
ways  show  himself  to  be  on  the  side  of  virtue.  To  deliver  moral 
instruction  in  a  formal  manner,  falls  not  within  his  province  ;  but 
both  as  a  good  man,  and  as  a  good  writer,  we  expect  that  he  should 
discover  sentiments  of  respect  for  virtue,  and  an  indignation  at  fla- 
grant vice.  To  appear  neutral  and  indifferent  with  respect  to  good 
and  bad  characters,  and  to  effect  a  crafty  and  political,  rather  than  a 
moral  turn  of  thought,  will,  besides  other  bad  effects,  derogate  great- 
ly from  the  weight  of  historical  composition,  and  will  render  the 
strain  of  it  much  more  cold  and  uninteresting.  We  are  always  most 
interested  in  the  transactions  which  are  going  on,  when  our  sympa 
thy  is  awakened  by  the  story,  and  when  we  become  engaged  in  the 
fate  of  the  actors.  But  this  effect  can  never  be  produced  by  a  wri- 
ter, who  is  deficient  in  sensibility  and  moral  feeling. 

As  the  observations  which  I  have  hitherto  made,  have  mostly  re 
spected  the  ancient  historians,  it  may  naturally  be  expected  that  I 
should  also  take  some  notice  of  the  moderns  who  have  excelled  in 
this  kind  of  writing. 

The  country  in  Europe,  where  the  historical  genius  has,  in  later 
ages,  shone  forth  with  most  lustre,  beyond  doubt,  is  Italy.  The  na- 
tional character  of  the  Italians  seems  favourable  to  it.  They  were 
always  distinguished  as  an  acute,  penetrating,  reflecting  people,  re- 
markable for  political  sagacity  and  wisdom,  and  who  early  addicted 
themselves  to  the  arts  of  writing.  Accordingly,  soon  after  the  res- 
toration of  letters,  Machiavel,  Guicciardin,  Davila,  Bentivoglio,  Fa- 
ther Paul,  became  highly  conspicuous  for  historical  merit.  They 
all  appear  to  have  conceived  very  just  ideas  of  history ;  and  are 
agreeable,  instructive,  and  interesting  writers.  In  their  manner  of 
narration,  they  are  formed  upon  the  ancients;  some  of  them,  as 
Bentivoglio  and  Guicciardin,  have,  in  imitation  of  them,  introduc- 
ed orations  into  their  history.  In  the  profoundness  and  distinctness 
of  their  political  views,  they  may,  perhaps,  be  esteemed  to  have  sur- 
passed the  ancients.  Critics  have,  at  the  same  time,  observed  some 
imperfections  in  each  of  them.  Machiavel,  in  his  history  of  Flo- 
rence, is  not  altogether  so  interesting  as  one  would  expect  an  author 
of  his  abilities  to  be;  either  through  his  own  defect,  or  through 
some  unhappiness  in  his  subject,  which  led  him  into  a  very  minute 
detail  of  the  intrigues  of  one  city.  Guicciardin,  at  all  times  sensible 
and  profound,  is  taxed  for  dwelling  so  long  on  the  Tuscan  affairs  as 
to  be  sometimes  tedious;  a  defect  which  is  also  imputed  occasional- 
ly to  the  judicious  Father  Paul.  Bentivoglio,  in  his  excellent  his- 
tory of  the  wars  of  Flanders,  is  accused  of  approaching  to  the  florid 
and  pompous  manner;  and  Davila,  though  one  of  the  most  agree- 
able and  entertaining  relaters,  has  manifestly  this  defect  of  spreading 
*  sort  of  uniformity  overall  his  characters,  by  ^presenting  them  as 


lect.  xxxvi.]        HISTORICAL  WRITING.  407 

guided  too  regularly  by  political  interest.  But  although  some 
objections  may  be  made  to  these  authors,  they  deserve,  upon  the 
whole,  to  be  placed  in  the  first  rank  of  modern  historical  writers 
The  wars  of  Flanders,  written  in  Latin  by  Famianus  Strada,  :p  a 
book  of  some  note ;  but  is  not  entitled  to  the  same  reputation  as  t>« 
works  of  the  other  historians  I  have  named.  Strada  is  too  violently 
partial  to  the  Spanish  c  mse;  and  too  open  a  panegyrist  of  the  Prince 
of  Parma.  He  is  florid,  diffuse,  and  an  affected  imitator  of  the  man- 
ner and  style  of  Livy. 

Among  the  French,  as  there  has  been  much  good  writing  in 
many  kinds,  so  also  in  the  historical.  That  ingenious  nation  who 
have  done  so  much  honour  to  modern  literature,  possess,  in  an 
eminent  degree,  the  talent  of  narration.  Many  of  their  later  his- 
torical writers  are  spirited,  lively,  and  agreeable;  and  some  of  them 
not  deficient  in  profoundness  and  penetration.  They  have  not, 
however,  produced  any  such  capital  historians  as  the  Italians,  whom 
I  mentioned  above. 

Our  island,  till  within  these  few  years,'  was  not  eminent  for 
its  historical  productions.  Early,  indeed,  Scotland  made  some 
figure  by  means  of  the  celebrated  Buchanan.  He  is  an  elegant 
writer,  classical  in  his  Latinity,  and  agreeable  both  in  narration 
and  description.  But  one  cannot  but  suspect  him  to  be  more  at- 
tentive to  elegance  than  to  accuracy.  Accustomed  to  form  his  poll 
tical  notions  wholly  upon  the  plans  of  ancient  governments,  the 
feudal  system  seems  never  to  have  entered  into  his  thoughts;  and 
as  this  was  the  basis  of  the  Scottish  constitution,  his  political  views 
are, of  course,  inaccurate  and  imperfect.  When  he  comes  to  the 
transactions  of  his  own  times,  there  is  such  a  change  in  his  manner 
of  writing,  and  such  an  asperity  in  his  style,  that,  on  what  side 
soever  the  truth  lies  with  regard  to  those  dubious  and  long  controvert- 
ed facts  which  make  the  subject  of  that  part  of  his  work,  it  is  im- 
possible to  clear  him  from  being  deeply  tinctured  with  the  spirit 
of  party. 

Among  the  older  English  historians,  the  most  considerable  is 
Lord  Clarendon.  Though  he  writes  as  the  professed  apologist  of 
one  side,  yet  there  appears  more  impartiality  in  his  relation  of  facts, 
than  might  at  first  be  expected.  A  great  spirit  of  virtue  and  probity 
runs  through  his  work.  He  maintains  all  the  dignity  of  an  historian. 
His  sentences,  indeed,  are  often  too  long,  and  his  general  manner 
is  prolix;  but  his  style,  on  the  whole,  is  manly;  and  his  merit,  as 
an  historian,  is  much  beyond  mediocrity.  Bishop  Burnet  is  lively 
and  perspicuous;  but  he  has  hardly  any  other  historical  merit 
His  style  is  too  careless  and  familiar  for  history;  his  characters  are, 
indeed,  marked  with  a  bold  and  strong  hai:d;  but  they  are  generally 
light  and  satirical ;  and  he  abounds  so  much  in  little  stories  concern- 
nig  himself,  that  he  resembles  more  a  writer  of  memoirs  than  of 
history.  During  a  long  period,  English  historical  authors  seeme^ 
to  aim  at  nothing  higher  than  an  exact  relation  of  facts;  till  of  late  the 
distinguished  names  of  Hume,  Robertson,  and  Gibbon,  have  raised 


4u»  HISTORICAL  WRITING.        [lect.  xxxn 

the  British  character,  in  this  species  of  writing,  to  high  reputation 
and  dignity. 

1  observed,  in  the  preceding  lecture,  that  annals,  memoirs,  and 
fives,  are  the  inferior  kinds  of  historical  composition.  It  will  be 
proper,  before  dismissing  this  subject,  to  make  a  few  observations 
upon  them.  Annals  are  commonly  understood  to  signify  a  col- 
lection of  facts,  digested  according  to  chronological  order;  rather 
serving  for  the  materials  of  history,  than  aspiring  to  the  name  of 
history  themselves.  All  that  is  required,  therefore,  in  a  writer  of 
such  annals,  is  to  be  faithful,  distinct,  and  complete. 

Memoirs  denote  a  sort  of  composition,  in  which  an  author  does 
not  pretend  to  give  full  information  of  all  the  facts  respecting  the 
period  of  which  he  writes,  but  only  to  relate  what  he  himself  had 
access  to  know,  or  what  he  was  concerned  in,  or  what  illustrates 
the  conduct  of  some  person,  or  the  circumstances  of  some  trans- 
action, which  he  chooses  for  his  subject.  From  a  writer  of  me- 
moirs, therefore,  is  not  expected  the  same  profound  research, 
or  enlarged  information,  as  from  a  writer  of  history.  He  is  not 
subject  to  the  same  laws  of  unvarying  dignity  and  gravity.  He  may 
talk  freely  of  himself;  he  may  descend  into  the  most  familiar  anec- 
dotes. What  is  chiefly  required  of  him  is,  that  he  be  sprightly 
and  interesting;  and  especially,  that  he  inform  us  of  things  that 
are  useful  and  curious ;  that  he  convey  to  us  some  sort  of  know- 
ledge worth  the  acquiring.  This  is  a  species  of  writing  very  be- 
witching to  such  as  love  to  write  concerning  themselves,  and  con- 
ceive every  transaction,  in  which  they  had  a  share,  to  be  of  singu- 
lar importance.  There  is  no  wonder,  therefore,  that  a  nation  so 
sprightly  as  the  French,  should,  for  two  centuries  past,  have  been 
pouring  forth  a  whole  flood  of  memoirs ;  the  greatest  part  of  which 
are  little  more  than  agreeable  trifles. 

Some,  however,  must  be  excepted  from  this  general  character: 
two  in  particular;  the  memoirs  of  the  Cardinal  de  Retz,  and  those 
of  the  Duke  of  Sully.  From  Retz's  Memoirs,  besides  the  pleasure 
of  agreeable  and  lively  narration,  we  may  derive  also  instruc- 
tion, and  much  knowledge  of  human  nature.  Though  his  poli- 
tics be  often  too  fine  spun,  yet  the  memoirs  of  a  professed  fac- 
tious leader,  such  as  the  Cardinal  was,  wherein  he  draws  both  his 
own  character,  and  that  of  several  great  personages  of  his  time,  so 
fully,  cannot  be  read  by  any  person  of  good  sense  without  benefit. 
The  Memoirs  of  the  Duke  of  Sully,  in  the  state  in  which  they  aie 
now  given  to  the  public,  have  great  merit,  and  deserve  to  be 
mentioned  with  particular  praise.  No  memoirs  approach  more 
nearly  to  the  usefulness  and  the  dignity  of  full  legitimate  history. 
They  have  this  peculiar  advantage,  of  giving  us  a  beautiful  dis- 
play of  two  of  the  most  illustrious  characters  which  history  pre- 
sents ;  Sully  himself,  one  of  the  ablest  and  most  incorrupt  ministers, 
and  Henry  IV.  one  of  the  greatest  and  most  amiable  princes  of 
modern  times.  I  know  kxv  books  more  full  of  virtue,  and  of  good 
tense,  thanSully'sMemoirs;  few,  therefore,  more  proper  to  form  both 


lect  xxxvi.]        HISTORICAL  WRITING.  409 

the  heads  and  the  hearts  of  such  as  are  designed  for  public  business, 
and  action,  in  the  world. 

Biography,  or  the  writing  of  lives,  is  a  very  useful  kind  of  com- 
position, less  formal  and  stately  than  history  ;  but  to  the  bulk  of 
readers,  perhaps,  no  less  instructive,,  as  it  affords  them  the  opportu- 
nity of  seeing  the  characters  and  tempers,  the  virtues  and  failings 
of  eminent  men  fully  displayed  ;  and  admits  them  into  a  more  tho- 
rough and  intimate  acquaintance  with  such  persons,  than  history  ge- 
nerally allows;  for  a  writer  of  lives  may  descend,  with  propriety, 
to  minute  circumstances,  and  familiar  incidents.  It  is  expected  of 
him,  that  he  is  to  give  the  private,  as  well  as  the  public  life,  of  the 
person  whose  actions  he  records ;  nay,  it  is  from  private  life,  from 
familiar,  domestic,  and  seemingly  trivial  occurrences,  that  we  often 
receive  most  light  into  the  real  character.  In  this  species  of  writing, 
Plutarch  has  no  small  merit;  and  to  him  we  stand  indebted  for  much 
of  the  knowledge  that  we  possess,  concerning  several  of  the  most 
eminent  personages  of  antiquity.  His  matter  is,  indeed,  better  than 
his  manner;  as  he  cannot  lay  claim  to  any  peculiar  beauty  or  ele- 
gance. His  judgment  too,  and  his  accuracy,  have  sometimes  been  tax- 
ed :  but  whatever  defects  of  this  kind  he  may  be  liable  to,  his  Lives 
of  Eminent  Men  will  always  be  considered  as  a  valuable  treasure  of 
instruction.  He  is  remarkable  for  being  one  of  the  most  humane  wri- 
ters of  all  antiquity  ;  less  dazzled  than  many  of  them  are,  with  the 
exploits  of  valour  and  ambition ;  and  fond  of  displaying  his  great  men 
to  us,  in  the  more  gentle  lights  of  retirement  and  private  life. 

I  cannot  conclude  the  subject  of  history,  without  taking  notice  of 
$.  very  great  improvement  which  has,  of  late  years,  begun  to  be  in- 
troduced into  historical  composition  ;  I  mean  a  more  particular  at- 
tention than  was  formerly  given  to  laws,  customs,  commerce,  reli- 
gion, literature,  and  every  other  thing  that  tends  to  show  the  spirit 
and  genius  of  nations.  It  is  now  understood  to  be  the  business  of 
an  able  historian  to  exhibit  manners,  as  well  as  facts  and  events  ;  and 
assuredly,  whatever  displays  the  state  and  life  of  mankind,  in  differ- 
ent periods,  and  illustrates  the  progress  of  the  human  mind,  is  more 
useful  and  interesting  than  the  detail  of  sieges  and  battles.  The 
person  to  whom  we  are  most  indebted  for  the  introduction  of  this 
improvement  into  history,  is  the  celebrated  M.  Voltaire,  whose 
genius  has  shone  with  such  surprising  lustre,  in  so  many  different 
parts  of  literature.  His  age  of  Louis  XIV.  was  one  of  the  first  great 
productions  in  this  taste;  and  soon  drew  throughout  all  Europe, 
that  general  attention,  and  received  that  high  approbation,  which 
so  ingenious  and  eloquent  a  production  merited.  His  essay  on  the 
general  history  of  Europe,  since  the  days  of  Charlemagne,  is  not  to 
be  considered  either  as  a  history,  or  the  proper  plan  of  an  histori 
cal  work ;  but  only  as  a  series  of  observations  on  the  chief  events 
that  have  happened  throughout  several  centuries,  and  on  the  changes 
that  successively  took  place  in  the  spirit  and  manners  of  different 
Cations.  Though,  in  some  dates  and  facts,  it  may,  perhaps,  be  in- 
accurate, and  is  tinged  with  those  particularities,  which  unhappily 
3N  52 


410 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  XXXVI 


distinguish  Voltaire's  manner  of  thinking  on  religious  subjects,  yet 
it  contains  so  many  enlarged  and  instructive  views,  as  justly  to  merit 
the  attention  of  all  who  either  read  or  write  the  history  of  those  ages 


QUESTIONS. 


Towards  the  close  of  the  last  lec- 
ure,  on  what  subject  did  our  author 
enter?  What  is  the  general  idea  of 
history?  Hence,  arise  what?  What 
was  principally  considered,  in  the  last 
lecture  ?  To  observe  what  does  our  au- 
Jior  next  proceed  ?  To  do  this,  what 
two  things  are  especially  necessary? 
Why  is  the  former  necessary,  and  why 
the  latter  ?  To  form  what,  must  both 
concur  ?  With  regard  to  political  know- 
ledge, what  is  observed?  In  ancient 
times,  what  was  the  state  of  the  world? 
What  influence  did  this  exert  over  the 
knowledge  and  materials  of  the  ancient 
historians  ?  And  what  is  also  to  be  ob- 
served ?  Hence,  to  what  are  they  less 
attentive?  What  remark  follows?  To 
these  reasons,  what  is  owing?  How  is 
this  remark  illustrated  from  the  Greek 
historians,  from  Livy,  and  from  Sallust? 
Of  what  does  our  author  not  mean  to 
censure  all  the  ancient  historians? 
Illustrate  this  remark  from  Thucydides, 
Polybius,  and  Tacitus.  But  when  we 
demand  from  the  historian  profound 
and  instructive  views  of  his  subject, 
what  is  not  meant  ?  What  information 
should  he  give  us ;  and  with  what 
should  he  make  us  acquainted  ?  Where 
should  he  place  us  ?  But  having  put 
into  our  hands  the  proper  materials  for 
judgment,  of  what  should  he  not  be 
too  prodigal ;  and  why  ?  By  what 
should  history  instruct  us?  On  what 
occasions  may  the  narrative  be  allowed 
to  stand  still  for  a  little  ?  On  such  oc- 
casions, what  may  the  historian  do ;  but 
of  what  must  he  be  careful  ?  When  ob- 
servations are  to  be  made  concerning 
human  nature  in  general,  on  the  pe- 
culiarities of  particular  characters, 
what  is  remarked  ?  What  is  the  first 
nstance  given  to  llustrate  this  remark ; 
and  of  it,  what  is  observed  ?  What 
other  thought,  in  the  same  historian, 
has  a  finer  effect ;  and  of  it,  what  is  re- 
marked ?  What  other  instance  of  the 
same  kind  have  we  ?  Into  what  gene- 
ral observation,  was  there  room  for 
turning  this  remark?  But  of  the  man- 
ner in  which  Tacitus  introduces  it, 
what    is  observed?    What  particular 


talent  has  this  historian  ?  To  consider 
what,  do  we  next  proceed  ?  Why  does 
much  depend  on  the  manner  of  narra- 
tion? How  may  we  be  convinced  of 
the  truth  of  this  remark  ?  What  is  the 
first  virtue  of  historical  narration  ?  To 
attain  this,  what  is  requisite  ;  and  why? 
Without  this,  what  can  we  not  expect? 
For  this  end,  nntce  observance  of  what 
will  much  depend  ;  and  on  what,  also, 
will  much  depend  ?  What  is  the  high- 
est test  of  the  abilities  of  an  historian  ? 
What  is  ihe  riext  requisite  in  historical 
narration  t  What  must  not  appear  in 
it ;  and  why  ?  What  does  our  author 
not  say  ?  WThy  ma\  he  sometimes  do 
this  with  propriety  ?  But  of  what  should 
he  be  careful  ;  and  what  remark  fol- 
lows? If  a  historian  possesses  these 
qualities,  and  is  still  o  dull  writer,  what 
will  be  the  consequence  l  What  must 
he  therefore  study  ;  and  of  it,  what  '» 
observed?  What  two  things  especially 
conduce  to  this  ?  What  is  the  effect  01 
the  former  ;  and  of  the  latter?  Whai 
must  an  historian  that  would  intentf 
us,  do?  What  is  the  n«  xi.  thing  to  be 
attended  to?  Of  geneial  facta,  what  is 
observed  ?  Dy  means  of  what,  does  a 
narration  become  interesting  and  affect- 
ing to  the  reader?  What  is  the  effect 
of  these  ;  and  what  is  it  properly  term 
ed  ?  In  all  these  virtues  of  narration, 
who  eminently  excel ;  and  hence,  what 
follows?  Of  Herodotus,  what  -s  here 
observed  ?  Though  the  manner  of  Thu- 
cydides be  more  dry  and  harsh,  yet,  on 
what  occasions  does  he  display  a  very 
strong  and  masterly  power  of  descrip- 
tion? Of  Xenophon's  CyropseJia,  and 
his  Anabasis,  what  is-  observed  ;  but 
what  is  a  much  inferior  work  ?  What  is 
here  remarked  of  Sallust?  And  of  Livy, 
what  is  observed?  What  instance  ip 
given  ?  What  are  the  particulars  ?  Re- 
peat the  passage  which  then  follows,  n* 
it  is  here  introduced.  Of  the  rest  of  the 
story,  what  is  observed  ? 

What  is  observed  of  Tacitus;  and 
how  do  his  descriptions  compare  with 
those  of  Livy  ?  What  course  does  he 
pursue?  What  example  is  given;  and 
of  it,  what  is  remarked  ?    Throughout 


LECT.  XXXVI.] 


QUESTIONS. 


410  a 


all  of  his  works,  what  does  he  show  ? 
How  is  this  remark  illustrated  ?  How 
does  he  paint ;  and  what  does  he,  be- 
yond all  writers,  possess  ?  With  many 
of  the  most  distinguished  beauties, 
however,  what  is  further  observed  of 
him  ?  What  embellishment  did  the  an- 
cients employ,  which  the  moderns  have 
laid  aside  ?  By  means  of  these,  what 
did  they  do  ?  Who  was  the  first  who 
introduced  this  method?  Of  the  orations 
with  which  his  history  abounds,  and  of 
those  of  some  other  Greek  and  Latin 
historians,  what  is  observed  ?  What, 
however,  may  be  much  questioned? 
Why  does  our  author  think  they  are 
unsuitable  to  it?  Of  these  orations, 
what  do  we  know  ?  Of  this  sort  of  po- 
etical liberty,  what  is  observed  ?  How 
is  this  illustrated  ?  Instead  of  inserting 
foTnal  orations,  what  method  has  been 
aaopted  by  later  writers  ?  Of  the  draw- 
ing of  characters,  what  is  observed ; 
and  why  ?  What  does  he  bring  to- 
gether ?  What  are  the  requisites  of  the 
writer  who  would  characterize  in  an 
instructive  and  masterly  manner? 
What  is  here  said  of  the  Greek  histo- 
rians ;  and  of  Sallust  and  Tacitus  ? 
Why  should  sound  morality  reign  in 
history  ?  In  what  should  the  author  al- 
ways show  himself  to  be  on  the  side  of 
virtue  ?  What  falls  not  witliin  his  pro- 
vince ;  but,  what  do  we  expect  from 
him  ?  What  derogate  greatly  from  the 
weight  of  historical  composition;  and 
what  additional  effect  will  they  have  ? 
When  are  we  most  interested  in  the 
transactions  which  are  going  on  ?  But 
by  whom  cannot  this  effect  be  pro- 
duced ?  As  the  observations  hitherto 
made  have  mostly  respected  the  an- 
cient historians,  what  may  naturally  be 
expected  ?  Where  has  historical  ge- 
nius, in  later  ages,  shone  forth  with 
most  lustre  ?  From  what  does  it  appear 
that  the  natural  character  of  the  Ital- 
ians favours  it  ?  Accordingly,  what  fol- 
lowed ;  and  of  them,  what  is  observed  ? 
In  their  manner  of  narration,  upon 
whom  are  they  formed  ;  and  of  some  of 
them,  what  is  r  ^marked  ?  In  what  may 
they  be  esteemed  to  have  surpassed 
the  ancients  ?  But  what  have  critics, 
at  the  same  time,  observed  ?  Of  Ma- 
chiavsl,  what  is  remarked  ?  With  what 
is  Guicciardin  taxed?  What  is  ob- 
served of  Bentivaglio,  and  of  Davila  ? 
What  remark  follows?  Of  the  wars  of 


Flanders,  by  Famianus  Strada,  and  of 
Strada  himself,  what  is  observed  ?  Oi 
the  French,  and  of  their  later  historical 
writers,  what  is  observed?  What, 
however,  have  they  not  done  ?  What 
is  remarked  of  Great  Britain?  By 
means  of  whom  did  Scotland  early- 
make  some  figure ;  and  of  him,  what 
is  observed  ?  Why  are  his  political 
views  inaccurate  and  imperfect  ?  What 
is  said  of  the  manner  in  which  he  re- 
cords the  transactions  of  his  own  times  ? 
What  is  observed  of  Lord  Clarendon  ? 
What  is  the  character  of  Bishop  Bur- 
net, as  an  historical  writer?  During  a 
long  period,  at  what  only  did  English 
authors  seem  to  aim  ?  What  is  said  of 
Hume,  Robertson,  and  Gibbon  ?  What 
was  observed  in  a  preceding  lecture  ? 
What  are  annals  commonly  understood 
to  signify  ?  What,  therefore,  is  all  that 
is  required  in  a  writer  of  annals?  What 
sort  of  composition  do  memoirs  denote  ? 
What,  therefore,  is  not  expected  from  a 
writer  of  memoirs  ?  What  is  chiefly  re- 
quired of  him  ?  Of  this  species  of  wri- 
ting, what  is  observed?  About  what, 
therefore,  is  there  no  wonder?  What 
two  must  be  excepted  from  this  general 
character  ?  Of  the  former,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  What  is  observed  of  the  Me- 
moirs of  the  Duke  of  Sully  ?  What  pe 
culiar  advantage  have  they  ?  Of  Bt- 
ography,  or  the  writing  of  lives,  what 
is  observed  ?  To  what  may  a  writer  ol 
lives  descend  ?  What  is  expected  ot 
him ;  and  why  ?  In  this  species  of  wri- 
ting, who  has  no  small  merit,  and  what 
is  observed  of  him  ?  For  what  is  he  re- 
markable? Without  noticing  what, 
cannot  our  author  close  the  subject  of 
history  ?  What  is  now  understood  to 
be  the  business  of  an  able  historian ; 
and  what  remark  follows  ?  To  whom 
are  we  most  indebted  for  this  improve- 
ment; and  what  is  said  of  him?  What. 
was  one  of  the  first  great  works  in  this 
taste,  and  what  was  its  effect  ?  What  is 
observed  of  his  essay  on  the  general 
history  of  Europe,  since  the  days  oi 
Charlemap-ne  ? 


ANALYSIS. 

1.  Historical  writing. 

a.  Actions  and  events  to  be  traced    to 

their  springs. 

a.  An  acquaintance  with  human  nature. 

b.  Political  knowledge. 

b.  The  proper  qualities  of  historical  nar 

ration. 


410  6 


QUESTIONS. 


[LETT     XXXVI* 


a.  Clearness,  order,  and  due  connexion. 
6.  Gravity  to  be  maintained, 
c.  The  narration  should  be  interesting', 
(a.)  The  ancients    eminent  for  this 
quality. 
c.  Orations  employed  by  the  ancients. 


d.  The  drawing  of  characters. 

e.  Morality,  an  indispensable  reqi 

f.  Distinguished  modern  historian 

2.  Annals. 

3.  Memoirs. 

4.  Biography. 


LECTURE   XXXVII. 


PHILOSOPHICAL  WRITING.— DIALOGUE.— EPISTOLA 
RY  WRITING.— FICTITIOUS  HISTORY. 

As  history  is  both  a  very  dignified  species  of  composition,  and, 
oy  the  regular  form  which  it  assumes,  falls  directly  under  the  laws 
of  criticism,  I  discoursed  of  it  fully  in  the  two  preceding  lectures. 
The  remaining  species  of  composition,  in  prose,  afford  less  room  for 
critical  observation. 

Philosophical  writing,  for  instance,  will  not  lead  us  into  any  long 
discussion.  As  the  professed  object  of  philosophy  is  to  convey  in- 
struction, and  as  they  who  study  it  are  supposed  to  do  so  for  instruc- 
tion, not  for  entertainment,  the  style,  the  form,  and  dress  of  such 
writings,  are  less  material  objects.  They  are  objects,  however,  that 
must  not  be  wholly  neglected.  He  who  attempts  to  instruct  man- 
kind, without  studying,  at  the  same  time,  to  engage  their  attention, 
and  to  interest  them  in  his  subject  by  his  manner  of  exhibiting  it, 
is  not  likely  to  prove  successful.  The  same  truths  and  reasonings, 
delivered  in  a  dry  and  cold  manner,  or  without  a  proper  measure  ot 
elegance  and  beauty,  will  make  very  different  impressions  on  the 
minds  of  men. 

It  is  manifest  that  every  philosophical  writer  must  study  the  ut- 
most perspicuity  ,  and,  by  reflecting  on  what  was  formerly  delivered 
on  the  subject  of  perspicuity,  with  respect  both  to  single  words  and 
the  construction  of  sentences,  we  may  be  convinced  that  this  is  a 
study  which  demands  considerable  attention  to  the  rules  of  style  and 
good  writing.  Beyond  mere  perspicuity,  strict  accuracy  and  pre- 
cision are  required  in  a  philosophical  writer.  He  must  employ  no 
word  of  uncertain  meaning,  no  loose  nor  indeterminate  expressions  ; 
and  should  avoid  using  words  which  are  seemingly  synonymous, 
without  carefully  attending  to  the  variations  which  they  make  upon 
the  idea. 

To  be  clear,  then,  and  precise,  is  one  requisite  which  we  have  a 
title  to  demand  from  every  philosophical  writer.  He  may  possess 
this  quality,  and  be,  at  the  same  time,  a  very  dry  writer.  He  should, 
therefore,  study  some  degree  of  embellishment,  in  order  to  render 
his  composition  pleasing  and  graceful.  One  of  the  most  agreeable, 
and  me  of  the  most  useful  embellishments,  which  a  philosopher  can 
employ,  consists  in  illustrations  taken  from  historical  facts,  and  the 
characters  of  men.  All  moral  and  political  subjects  laterally  affoid 
scope  for  these ;  and  wherever  there  is  room  for  enploying  them 


.  i!CT.  xxxvit]  DIALOGUE.  411 

they  seldom  fail  of  producing  a  happy  effect.  They  diversify  the 
composition  ;  they  relieve  the  mind  from  the  fatigue  of  mere  reason- 
ing, and  at  the  same  time  raise  more  full  conviction  than  any  reason 
ings  produce :  for  they  take  philosophy  out  of  the  abstract,  and  give 
weight  to  speculation,  by  showing  its  connexion  with  real  life,  and 
the  actions  of  mankind. 

Philosophical  writing  admits  besides  of  a  polished,  a  n«  \t,  and 
elegant  style.  It  admits  of  metaphors,  comparisons,  and  ail  the 
calm  figures  of  speech,  by  which  an  author  may  convey  his  sense 
to  the  understanding  with  clearness  and  force,  at  the  same  time  that 
he  entertains  the  imagination.  He  must  take  great  caie,  however, 
that  all  his  ornaments  be  of  the  chastest  kind,  never  partaking  of  the 
florid  or  the  tumid  ;  which  is  so  unpardonable  in  a  professed  philo- 
sopher, that  it  is  much  better  for  him  to  err  on  the  side  of  naked 
simplicity,  than  on  that  of  too  much  ornament.  Some  of  the  ancients, 
as  Plato  and  Cicero,  have  left  us  philosophical  treatises  composed 
with  much  elegance  and  beauty.  Seneca  has  been  long  and  justly 
censured  for  the  affectation  that  appears  in  his  style.  He  is  too  fond 
of  a  certain  brilliant  and  sparkling  manner ;  of  antithesis  and  quaint 
sentences.  It  cannot  be  denied,  at  the  same  time,  that  he  often  ex- 
presses himself  with  much  liveliness  and  force :  though  his  style, 
upon  the  whole,  is  far  from  deserving  imitation.  In  English,  Mr. 
Locke's  celebrated  Treatise  on  Human  Understanding,  may  be 
pointed  out  as  a  model,  on  the  one  hand,  of  the  greatest  clearness 
and  distinctness  of  philosophical  style,  with  very  little  approach  to 
ornament;  Lord  Shaftesbury's  writings,  on  the  other  hand,  exhibit 
philosophy  dressed  up  with  all  the  ornament  which  it  can  admit ; 
perhaps  with  more  than  is  perfectly  suited  to  it. 

Philosophical  composition  sometimes  assumes  a  form  under  which 
it  mingles  more  with  works  of  taste,  when  carried  on  in  the  way  of 
dialogue  and  conversation.  Under  this  form  the  ancients  have  given 
us  some  of  their  chief  philosophical  works  ;  and  several  of  the  mo- 
derns have  endeavoured  to  imitate  them.  Dialogue  writing  may 
be  executed  in  two  ways,  either  as  direct  conversation,  where  none 
but  the  speakers  appear,  which  is  the  method  that  Plato  uses  ;  or  as 
the  recital  of  a  conversation,  where  the  author  himself  appears,  and 
gives  an  account  of  what  passed  in  discourse,  which  is  the  method 
that  Cicero  generally  follows.  But  though  those  different  methods 
make  some  variation  in  the  form,  yet  the  nature  of  the  composition 
is  at  bottom  the  same  in  both,  Lnd  subject  to  the  same  laws. 

A  dialogue,  in  one  or  other  of  these  forms,  on  some  philosophical, 
moral,  or  critical  subject,  when  it  is  well  conducted,  stands  in  a  high 
rank  among  the  works  of  taste ;  but  is  much  more  difficult  in  the 
execution  than  is  commonly  imagined  :  for  it  requires  more  than 
merely  the  introduction  of  different  persons  speaking  in  succession 
It  ought  to  be  a  natural  and  spirited  representation  of  real  conversa 
tion  ;  exhibiting  the  character  and  manners  of  the  several  speakers, 
and  suiting  to  the  character  of  each,  that  peculiarity  of  thought  and 
expression  which  distinguishes  him  from  another.  A  dialogue,  thus 
conducted,  gives  the  reader  a  very  agreeable  entertainment ;  as  bv 


412  DIALOGUE.  [lect.  xxxvn. 

means  ot  the  debate  going  on  among  the  personages,  he  receives  x 
fair  and  full  view  of  both  sides  of  the  argument,  and  is  at  thr  ••■.-.v.o 
lime  amused  with  polite  conversation,  and  with  a  display  of  con- 
sistent and  well  supported  characters.  An  author,  therefore,  who 
has  genius  for  executing  such  a  composition  after  this  manner,  I'.as 
it  in  his  power  both  to  instruct  and  to  please. 

But  the  greatest  part  of  modern  dialogue  writers  have  no  idea  ot 
any  composition  of  this  sort;  and  bating  the  outward  forms  of  con- 
versation, and  that  one  speaks  and  another  answers,  it  is  quite  the 
same  as  if  the  author  spoke  in  person  throughout  the  whole.  He 
sets  up  a  Philotheus,  perhaps,  and  a  Philatheos,  or  an  A  and  a  B  ; 
who,  after  mutual  compliments,  and  after  admiring  the  fineness  ot 
the  morning  or  evening,  and  the  beauty  of  the  prospects  around 
them,  enter  into  conference  concerning  some  grave  matter ;  and  all 
that  we  know  farther  of  them  is,  that  the  one  personates  the  author, 
a  man  of  learning,  no  doubt,  and  of  good  principles  ;  and  the  other 
is  a  man  of  straw,  set  up  to  propose  some  trivial  objections,  over 
which  the  first  gains  a  most  entire  triumph,  and  leaves  his  skepti- 
cal antagonist}at  the  end, much  humbled,  and  generally,  convinced 
of  his  error.  This  is  a  very  frigid  and  insipid  manner  of  writing ; 
the  more  so,  as  it  is  an  attempt  toward  something,  which  we  see  the 
author  cannot  support.  It  is  the  form,  without  the  spirit,  of  con- 
versation. The  dialogue  serves  no  purpose,  but  to  make  awkward  in- 
terruptions  ;  and  we  should  with  more  patience  hear  the  author  con 
tinuing  always  to  reason  himself,  and  remove  the  objections  that  are 
made  to  his  principles,  than  be  troubled  with  the  unmeaning  appear- 
ance of  two  persons,  whom  we  see  to  be  in  reality  no  more  than  one. 

Among  the  ancients,  Plato  is  eminent  for  the  beauty  of  his  dia- 
logues. The  scenery,  and  the  circumstances  of  many  of  them,  art' 
Deautifully  painted.  The  characters  of  the  sophists,  with  whom 
Socrates  disputed,  are  well  drawn  :  a  variety  of  personages  are  ex- 
hibited to  us  •,  we  are  introduced  into  a  real  conversation,  often  sup- 
ported with  much  life  and  spirit,  after  the  Socratic  manner.  For 
richness  and  beauty  of  imagination,  no  philosophic  writer,  ancient 
or  modern,  is  comparable  to  Plato.  The  only  fault  of  his  imagina- 
tion is,  such  an  excess  of  fertility  as  allows  it  sometimes  to  obscure 
his  judgment.  It  frequently  carries  him  into  allegory,  fiction,  en- 
thusiasm, and  the  airy  regions  of  mystical  theology.  The  philoso 
pher  is,  at  times,  lost  in  the  poet.  But  whether  we  be  edified  with 
the  matter  or  not,  (and  much  edification  he  often  affords,)  we  are 
always  entertained  with  the  manner ;  and  left  with  a  strong  impres- 
sion of  the  sublimity  of  the  author's  genius. 

Cicero's  dialogues,  or  those  recitals  of  conversation,  which  he  ha? 
introduced  into  several  of  his  philosophical  and  critical  works,  are 
not  so  spirited,  nor  so  characteristical,  as  those  of  Plato.  Yet  some, 
as  that  D°  n~atore  especially,  are  agreeable  and  well  supported. 
They  show  us  conversation  carried  on  among  some  of  the  principal 
persons  of  ancient  Rome,  with  freedom,  good  breeding,  and  digni 
ty.  The  author  of  the  elegant  dialogue.  De  Causis  Corruptee  Elo- 
quentix,  which  is  annexed  sometimes  to  the  works  of  Quiutuiai^ 


lect.  xxxvii. J       EPISTOLARi    WRITING.  413 

<md  sometimes  to  those  of  Tacitus,  has  happily  imitated,  perhaps  nay 
excelled  Cicero,  in  this  manner  of  writing. 

Lucianis  h  dialogue  writer  of  much  eminence:  though  his  sub 
jeots  are  seldom  such  as  can  entitle  him  to  be  ranked  among  philo- 
sophical authors.  He  has  given  the  model  of  the  light  and  hu- 
mourous dialogue,  and  has  carried  it  to  great  perfection.  A  charac- 
ter of  levity,  and  at  the  same  time  of  wit  and  penetration,  distin- 
gu  shes  all  his  writings.  His  great  object  was,  to  expose  the  follies 
of  superstition,  and  the  pedantry  of  philosophy,  which  prevailed 
in  his  age ;  and  he  could  not  have  taken  any  more  successful  me- 
thod for  this  end,  than  what  he  has  employed  in  his  dialogues,  espe- 
ci?lly  in  those  of  the  gods  and  of  the  dead,  which  are  full  of  pleasant- 
ry and  satire.  In  this  invention  of  dialogues  of  the  dead,  he  has 
been  followed  by  several  modern  authors.  Fontenelle,  in  particu- 
lar, has  given  us  dialogues  of  this  sort,  which  are  sprightly  and 
agieeable;  but  as  for  characters,  whoever  his  personages  be,  they  all 
become  Frenchmen  in  his  hands.  Indeed,  few  things  in  composi- 
tion are  more  difficult,  than  in  the  course  of  a  moral  dialogue  to 
exhibit  characters  properly  distinguished ;  as  calm  conversation 
furnishes  none  of  those  assistances  for  bringing  characters  into  light, 
which  the  active  scenes  and  interesting  situations  of  the  drama  af- 
ford. Hence  few  authors  are  eminent  for  characteristical  dialogue 
on  grave  subjects.  One  of  the  most  remarkable  in  the  English  lan- 
guage, is  a  writer  of  the  last  age,  Dr.  Henry  More,  in  his  Divine 
Dialogues,  relating  to  the  foundations  of  natural  religion.  Though 
his  style  be  now  in  some  measure  obsolete,  and  his  speakers  be  mark- 
ed with  the.  academic  stiffness  of  those  times,  yet  the  dialogue  is  ani- 
mated by  a  variety  of  character,  and  a  sprightliness  of  conversation, 
beyond  what  are  commonly  met  with  in  writings  of  this  kind. 
Bishop  Berkeley's  Dialogues  concerning  the  existence  of  matter,  do 
not  attempt  any  display  of  characters ;  but  furnish  an  instance  of  a 
very  abstract  subject,  rendered  clear  and  intelligible  by  means  of 
conversation  properly  managed. 

I  proceed  next  to  make  some  observations  on  epistolary  writing, 
which  possesses  a  kind  of  middle  place  bstween  the  serious  and 
amusing  species  of  composition.  Epistolary  writing  appears,  at  first 
view,  to  stretch  into  a  very  wide  field.  For  there  is  no  subject 
whatever,  on  which  one  may  not  convey  his  thoughts  to  the  pub- 
lic, in  the  form  of  a  letter.  Lord  Shaftesbury,  for  instance.  Mi 
Harris,  and  several  other  writers,  have  chosen  to  give  this  form  to 
philosophical  treatises.  But  this  is  not  sufficient  to  class  such  trea- 
tises under  the  head  of  epistolary  composition.  Though  they  bear, 
in  the  title  page,  a  Letter  to  a  Friend,  after  the  first  address,  the  friend 
disappears,  and  we  see  that  it  is,  in  truth,  the  public  with  whom 
the  author  corresponds.  Seneca's  Epistles  are  of  this  sort.  There 
is  no  probability  that  they  ever  passed  in  correspondence,  as  real 
letters.  They  are  no  other  than  miscellaneous  dissertations  on  mo 
ral  subjects ;  which  the  author,  for  his  convenience,  chose  to  put 
into  the  epistolary  form.  Even  where  one  writes  a  real  letter  or 
some  formal  topic,  as  of  moral  or  religious  consolation,  to  a  person 


114  EPISTOLARY  WRITING.       [lect.  xxxvn 

jnder  distress,  such  as  Sir  William  Temple  has  written  to  the  coun- 
tess of  Essex  on  the  death  of  her  daughter,  he  is  at  liberty,  on  such 
occasions,  to  write  wholly  as  a  divine  or  as  a  philosopher,  and  to 
assume  the  style  and  manner  of  one,  without  reprehension.  We 
consider  the  author  not  as  writing  a  letter,  but  as  composing  a  dis 
course,  suited  particularly  to  the  circumstances  of  some  one  person. 

Epistolary  writing  becomes  a  distinct  species  of  composition,  sub- 
ject to  the  cognizance  of  criticism,  only,  or  chiefly,  when  it  is  of  the 
easy  and  familiar  kind;  when  it  is  conversation  carried  on  upon 
paper,  between  two  friends  at  a  distance.  Such  an  intercourse. 
%vhen  well  conducted,  may  be  rendered  very  agreeable  to  readers 
of  taste.  If  the  subject  of  the  letters  be  important,  they  will  be  the 
more  valuable.  Even  though  there  should  be  nothing  very  consi- 
derable in  the  subject ;  yet,  if  the  spirit  and  turn  of  the  correspon- 
dence be  agreeable  ;  if  they  be  written  in  a  sprightly  manner,  and 
with  native  grace  and  ease,  they  may  still  be  entertaining;  more 
especially  if  there  be  any  thing  to  interest  us,  in  the  characters  of 
those  who  write  them.  Hence  the  curiosity  which  the  public  has 
always  discovered  concerning  the  letters  of  eminent  persons.  We 
expect  in  them  to  discover  somewhat  of  their  real  character.  It  is 
childish  indeed  to  expect,  that  in  letters  we  are  to  find  the  whole- 
heart  of  the  author  unveiled.  Concealment  and  disguise  take  place, 
more  or  less,  in  all  human  intercowrse.  But  still,  as  letters  from  one 
friend  to  another  make  the  nearest  approach  to  conversation,  we  may 
expect  to  see  more  of  a  character  displayed  in  these  than  in  other 
productions,  wh<ch  are  studied  for  public  view.  We  please  ourselves 
with  beholding  the  writer  in  a  situation  which  allows  him  to  be  at  his 
ease,  and  to  give  vent  occasionally  to  the  overflowings  of  his  heart. 

Much,  therefore,  of  the  merit,  and  the  agreeableness  of  epistolary 
writing,  will  depend  on  its  introducing  us  into  some  acquaintance 
with  the  writer.  There,  if  any  where,  we  look  for  the  man,  not 
for  the  author.  Its  first  and  fundamental  requisite  is,  to  be  natural 
and  simple  ;  for  a  stiff  and  laboured  manner  is  as  bad  in  a  letter,  as 
it  is  in  conversation.  This  does  not  banish  sprightliness  and  wit. 
These  are  graceful  in  letters,  just  as  they  are  in  conversation  ;  when 
they  flow  easily,  and  without  being  studied  ;  when  employed  so  as 
to  season,  not  to  cloy.  One  who,  either  in  conversation  or  in  let- 
ters, affects  to  shine  and  to  sparkle  always,  will  not  please  long. 
The  style  of  letters  should  not  be  too  highly  polished  ;  it  ougit 
to  be  neat  and  correct,  but  no  more.  All  nicety  about  words,  be- 
trays study;  and  hence  musical  periods,  and  appearances  of  num- 
ber and  harmony  in  arrangement,  should  be  carefully  avoided  in 
letters.  The  best  letters  are  commonly  such  as  the  authors  have  writ- 
ten with  most  facility.  What  the  heart  or  the  imagination  dictates, 
always  flows  readily  ;  but  where  there  is  no  subject  to  warm  or  in 
terest  these,  constraint  appears ;  and  hence,  those  letters  of  mere 
compliment,  congratulation,  or  affected  condolence,  which  have  cost 
'Jie  authors  most  labour  in  composing,  and  which,  for  that  reason, 
they  perhaps  consider  as  their  masterpieces,  never  fail  of  being  the 
most  disagreeable  and  insipid  to  the  readers. 


i.ect.  xxxvu.]       EPISTOLARY  WRITING.  415 

It  ought,  at  the  same  time,  to  be  remembered,  that  the  ease  and 
simplicity  which  I  have  recommended  in  epistolary  correspondence, 
are  not  to  be  understood  as  importing  entire  carelessness.  In  writ- 
ing to  the  most  intimate  friend,  a  certain  degree  of  attention,  both 
to  the  subject  and  the  style,  is  requisite  and  becoming.  It  is  no 
more  than  what  we  owe  both  to  ourselves  and  to  the  friend  with 
whom  we  correspond.  A  slovenly  and  negligent  manner  of  writ- 
ng,  is  a  disobliging  mark  of  want  of  respect.  The  liberty,  be.' ides, 
of  writing  letters  with  too  careless  a  hand,  is  apt  to  betray  persons  in- 
to imprudence  in  what  they  write.  The  first  requisite,  both  in  con- 
versation and  in  correspondence,  is  to  attend  to  all  the  proper  deco- 
rums which  our  own  character  and  that  of  others  demand.  An 
imprudent  expression  in  conversation  may  be  forgotten  and  pass 
away  ;  but  when  we  take  the  pen  into  our  hand,  we  must  remem- 
ber, that '  Litera  scripta  manet.' 

Pliny's  Letters  are  one  of  the  most  celebrated  collections  which 
the  ancients  have  given  us,  in  the  epistolary  way.  They  are  elegant 
and  polite  ;  and  exhibit  a  very  pleasing  and  amiable  view  of  the 
luthor.  But,  according  to  the  vulgar  phrase,  they  smell  too  much 
of  the  lamp.  They  are  too  elegant  and  fine  ;  and  it  is  not  easy  to 
avoid  thinking,  that  the  author  is  casting  an  eye  towards  the  pub- 
lic, when  he  is  appearing  to  write  only  for  his  friends.  Nothing 
indeed  is  more  difficult  than  for  an  author  who  publishes  his  own 
letters,  to  divest  himself  altogether  of  attention  to  the  opinion  of  the 
world  in  what  he  says;  by  which  means  he  becomes  much  less 
agreeable  than  a  man  of  parts  would  be,  if,  without  any  constraint  oi 
this  sort,  he  were  writing  to  his  intimate  friend. 

Cicero's  Epistles,  though  not  so  showy  as  those  of  Pliny,  are,  on 
several  accounts,  a  far  more  valuable  collection  ;  indeed,  the  most 
valuable  collection  of  letters  extant  in  any  language.  They  are 
letters  of  real  business,  written  to  the  greatest  men  of  the  age,  com- 
posed with  purity  and  elegance,  but  without  the  least  affectation  ; 
and,  what  adds  greatly  to  their  merit,  written  without  any  inten- 
tion of  being  published  to  the  world.  For  it  appears,  that  Cicero 
never  kept  copies  of  his  own  letters ;  and  we  are  wholly  indebted 
to  the  care  of  his  freedman  Tyro,  for  the  large  collection  that  was 
made,  after  his  death,  of  those  which  are  now  extant,  amounting  to 
near  a  thousand.*  They  contain  the  most  authentic  materials  of  the 
history  of  that  age  :  and  are  the  last  monuments  which  remain  oi 
Rome  in  its  free  state  ;  the  greatest  part  of  them  being  written  dur- 
ing that  important  crisis,  when  the  republic  was  on  the  point  of  ruin; 
the  most  interesting  situation,  perhaps,  which  is  to  be  found  in  the 
affairs  of  mankind.  To  his  intimate  friends,  especially  to  Atticus, 
Cicero  lays  open  himself  and  his  heart,  with  entire  freedom.  In  the 
course  of  his  correspondence  with  others,  we  are  introduced  into 
acquaintance  with  several  of  the  principal  personages  of  Rome ;  and 
it  is  remarkable  that  most  of  Cicero's  correspondents,  as  well  as  him- 

*  See  his  letter  to  Atticus,  which  was  written  a  year  or  two  before  his  death,  in 
rt-hicli  lie  tells  him,  in  answer  to  some  inquiries  concerning  his  epistles,  that  he  had  no 
collection  of  them,  and  that  Tyro  had  only  about  seventy  of  them.      Ad.  Aft.    vi.  5. 

30 


416  EPISTOLARY  WRITING.       [lect.  xxx>  il 

self,  are  elegant  and  polite  writers  :  which  serves  to  heighten  our 
.dea  of  the  taste  and  manners  of  that  age. 

The  most  distinguished  collection  of  letters  in  the  English  lan- 
guage, is  that  of  Mr.  Pope,  Dean  Swift,  and  their  friends ;  partly 
published  in  Mr.  Pope's  works,  and  partly  in  those  of  Dean  Swift. 
This  collection  is,  on  the  whole,  an  entertaining  and  agreeable  one  ; 
and  contains  much  wit  and  refinement.  It  is  not,  however,  altogeth- 
er free  from  the  fault  which  I  imputed  to  Pliny's  Epistles,  of  too 
much  study  and  refinement.  In  the  variety  of  letters  from  different 
persons,  contained  in  that  collection,  we  find  many  that  are  written 
with  ease,  and  a  beautiful  simplicity.  Those  of  Dr.  Arbuthnot,  in 
particular,  always  deserve  that  praise.  Dean  Swift's  also  are  unaffect- 
ed ;  and  as  a  proof  of  their  being  so,  they  exhibit  his  character  ful- 
ly, with  all  its  defects  ;  though  it  were  to  be  wished,  for  the  honour 
of  his  memory,  that  his  epistolary  correspondence  had  not  been 
drained  to  the  dregs,  by  so  many  successive  publications  as  have 
been  given  to  the  world.  Several  of  Lord  Bolingbroke's  and  of 
Bishop  Atterbury's  letters,  are  masterly.  The  censure  of  writing 
letters  in  too  artificial  a  manner,  falls  heaviest  on  Mr.  Pope  himself. 
There  is  visibly  more  study,  and  less  of  nature  and  the  heart  in  his 
letters,  than  in  those  of  some  of  his  correspondents.  He  had  form- 
ed himself  on  the  manner  of  Voiture,  and  is  too  fond  of  writing  like 
a  wit.  His  letters  to  ladies  are  full  of  affectation.  Even  in  writing 
to  his  friends,  how  forced  an  introduction  is  the  following,  of  a  let- 
ter to  Mr.  Addison  :  '  I  am  more  joyed  at  your  return,  than  I  should 
be  at  that  of  the  sun,  as  much  as  I  wish  for  him  in  this  melancholy 
wet  season ;  but  it  is  his  fate  too,  like  yours,  to  be  displeasing  to 
owls  and  obscene  animals,  who  cannot  bear  his  lustre.'  How  stiff 
a  compliment  is  it  which  he  pays  to  Bishop  Atterbury  !  '  Though 
the  noise  and  daily  bustle  for  the  public  be  now  over,  I  dare  say 
you  are  still  tendering  its  welfare  ;  as  the  sun  in  winter,  when  seem- 
ing to  retire  from  the  world,  is  preparing  warmth  and  benedictions 
for  a  better  season.'  This  sentence  might  be  tolerated  in  a  harangue ; 
but  is  very  unsuitable  to  the  style  of  one  friend  corresponding  with 
another. 

The  gayety  and  vivacity  of  the  French  genius  appear  to  much 
advantage  in  their  letters,  and  have  given  birth  to  several  agreeable 
publications.  In  the  last  age,  Balzac  and  Voiture  were  the  two 
most  celebrated  epistolary  writers.  Balzac's  reputation  indeed  soon 
declined,  on  account  of  his  swelling  periods  and  pompous  style. 
.But  Voiture  continued  long  a  favourite  author.  His  composition 
is  extremely  sparkling;  he  shows  a  great  deal  of  wit,  and  can  trifle 
in  the  most  entertaining  manner.  His  only  fault  is,  that  he  is  too 
open  and  professed  a  wit,  to  be  thoroughly  agreeable  as  a  letter  wri- 
ter. The  letters  of  Madame  de  Sevigne  are  now  esteemed  the  most 
accomplished  model  of  a  familiar  correspondence.  They  turn  indeed 
very  much  upon  trifles,  the  incidents  of  the  day,  and  the  news  of  the 
town  ;  and  they  are.  overloaded  with  extravagant  compliments,  and 
expressions  of  fondness,  to  her  favourite  daughter;  but  withal,  they 
show  such  perpp'   al  sprightliness,  they  contain  such  easy  and  varied 


lect.  xxxvii.]        FICTITIOUS  HISTORY  417 

narration,  and  so  many  strokes  of  the  most  lively  and  beautiful  paint- 
ing, perfectly  free  from  any  affectation,  that  they  are  justly  entitled 
to  high  praise.  The  letters  of  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montague  are  not 
unworthy  of  being  named  after  those  of  Madame  de  Sevigne.  They 
have  much  of  the  French  ease  and  vivacity ;  and  retain  more  the 
character  of  agreeable  epistolary  style,  than  perhaps  any  letters  which 
have  appeared  in  the  English  language. 

There  remains  to  be  treated  of,  another  species  of  composition  in 
prose,  which  comprehends  a  very  numerous,  though,  in  general,  a 
very  insignificant  class  of  writings,  known  by  the  name  of  romances 
and  novels.  These  may,  at  first  view,  seem  too  insignificant,  to  de- 
serve that  any  particular  notice  should  be  taken  of  them.  But  I  can- 
not be  of  this  opinion.  Mr.  Fletcher,  of  Salton,  in  one  of  his  tracts, 
quotes  it  as  the  saying  of  a  wise  man,  that,  give  him  the  making  of 
all  the  ballads  of  a  nation,  he  would  allow  any  one  that  pleased  to 
make  their  laws.  The  saying  was  founded  on  reflection  and  good 
sense,  and  is  applicable  to  the  subject  now  before  us.  For  any  kind  of 
writing,  how  trifling  soever  in  appearance,  that  obtains  a  general  cur- 
rency, and  especially  that  early  preoccupies  the  imagination  of  the 
youth  of  both  sexes,  must  demand  particular  attention.  Its  influence 
is  likely  to  be  considerable,  both  on  the  morals  and  taste  of  a  nation. 

In  fact,  fictitious  histories  might  be  employed  for  very  useful 
purposes.  They  furnish  one  of  the  best  channels  for  conveying 
instruction,  for  painting  human  life  and  manners,  for  showing  the 
errors  into  which  we  are  betrayed  by  our  passions,  for  rendering 
virtue  amiable  and  vice  odious.  The  effect  of  well  contrived  stories, 
towards  accomplishing  these  purposes,  is  stronger  than  any  effect 
that  can  be  produced  by  simple  and  naked  instruction  ;  and  hence  we 
find,  that  the  wisest  men  in  all  ages  have  more  or  less  employed 
fables  and  fictions,  as  the  vehicles  of  knowledge.  These  have  ever 
been  the  basis  of  both  epic  and  dramatic  poetry.  It  is  not,  there- 
fore, the  nature  of  this  sort  of  writing,  considered  in  itself,  but  the 
faulty  manner  of  its  execution,  that  can  expose  it  to  any  contempt. 
Lord  Bacon  takes  notice  of  our  taste  for  fictitious  history,  as  a  prooi 
of  the  greatness  and  dignity  of  the  human  mind.  He  observes  very 
ingeniously,  that  the  objects  of  this  world,  and  the  common  train  of 
affairs  which  we  behold  going  on  in  it,  do  not  fill  the  mind,  nor  give 
it  entire  satisfaction.  We  seek  for  something  that  shall  expand  the 
mind  in  a  greater  degree :  we  seek  for  more  heroic  and  illustrious 
deeds,  for  more  diversified  and  surprising  events,  for  a  more  splen- 
did order  of  things,  a  more  regular  and  just  distribution  of  rewards 
and  punishments,  than  what  we  find  here:  because  we  meet  no 
with  these  in  true  history,  we  have  recourse  to  fictitious.  We  cre- 
ate worlds  according  to  our  fancy,  in  order  to  gratify  our  capacious 
desires  :  "  Accommodando,"  says  that  great  philosopher,  "  rerum 
simulacra  ad  animi  desideria,  non  submittendo  animum  rebus, 
quod  ratio   facit,   et   historia."*     Let  us  then,  since  the  subject 

*  "  Accommodating  the  appearances  of  tilings  to  the  desires  of  the  mind,  not  bring- 
ing down  the  mind,  as  history  and  philosophy  do,  to  the  course  of  events. 

53 


♦18  FICTITIOUS  HISTORY.         [lect.  xxxvn 

wants  neither  dignity  nor  use,  make  a  few  observations  on  the  vise 
and  progress  of  fictitious  history,  and  the  different  forms  it  has  as 
sumed  in  different  countries. 

In  all  countries  we  find  its  origin  very  ancient.  The  genius  oi 
the  Eastern  nations,  in  particular,  was  from  the  earliest  times  much 
turned  towards  invention,  and  the  love  of  fiction.  Their  divinity, 
their  philosophy,  and  their  politics,  were  clothed  in  fables  and  par- 
ables. The  Indians,  the  Persians,  and  Arabians,  were  all  famous 
for  their  tales.  The  Arabian  Nights'  Entertainments  are  the  pro- 
duction of  a  romantic  invention,  but  of  a  rich  and  amusing  imagi- 
nation ;  exhibiting  a  singular  and  curious  display  of  manners  and 
characters,  and  beautified  .vith  a  very  humane  morality.  Among 
the  ancient  Greeks,  we  hear  of  the  Ionian  and  Milesian  Tales  ;  but 
they  have  now  perished,  and,  from  any  account  that  we  have  of 
them,  appear  to  have  been  of  the  loose  and  wanton  kind.  Some 
fictitious  histories  yet  remain,  that  were  composed  during  the  de- 
cline of  the  Roman  empire,  by  Apuleius,  Achilles  Tatius,  and  He- 
liodorus,  bishop  of  Trica,  in  the  fourth  century  ;  but  none  of  them 
are  considerable  enough  to  merit  particular  criticisms. 

During  the  dark  ages,  this  sort  of  writing  assumed  a  new  and 
very  singular  form,  and  for  a  long  while  made  a  great  figure  in  the 
world  The  martial  spirit  of  those  nations,  among  whom  the  feudal 
government  prevailed  ;  the  establishment  of  single  combat,  as  an 
allowed  method  of  deciding  causes  both  of  justice  and  honour;  the 
appointment  of  champions  in  the  cause  of  women,  who  could  not 
maintain  their  own  rights  by  the  sword ;  together  with  the  insti- 
tution of  military  tournaments,  in  which  different  kingdoms  vied 
with  one  another,  gave  rise,  in  those  times,  to  that  marvellous  sys- 
tem of  chivalry;  which  is  one  of  the  most  singular  appearances  in 
the  history  of  mankind.  Upon  this  were  founded  those  romances 
of  knight-errantry,  which  carried  an  ideal  chivalry  to  a  still  more 
extravagant  height  than  it  had  risen  in  fact.  There  was  displayed 
in  them  a  new  and  very  wonderful  sort  of  world,  hardly  bearing 
any  resemblance  to  the  world  in  which  we  dwell.  Not  only  knights 
setting  forth  to  redress  all  manner  of  wrongs,  but  in  every  page> 
magicians,  dragons,  and  giants,  invulnerable  men,  winged  horses, 
enchanted  armour,  and  enchanted  castles ;  adventures  absolutely 
incredible,  yet  suited  to  the  gross  ignorance  of  these  ages,  and  to 
the  legends,  and  superstitious  notions  concerning  magic  and  necro- 
mancy, which  then  prevailed.  This  merit  they  had,  of  being  writ- 
ings of  the  highly  moral  and  heroic  kind.  Their  knights  were 
patterns  not  of  courage  merely,  but  of  religion,  generosity,  courtesy, 
and  fidelity  ;  and  the  heroines  were  no  less  distinguished  for  mo- 
desty, delicacy,  and  the  utmost  dignity  of  manners. 

These  were  the  first  compositions  that  received  the  name  of  ro 
mances.  The  origin  of  this  name  is  traced,  by  Mr.  Huet,  the  learn- 
ed bishop  of  Avranche,  to  the  Provencal  troubadours,  a  sort  o*' 
story-tellers  and  bards  in  the  county  of  Provence,  where  there  sub- 
sisted some  remains  of  literature  and  poetry.  The  language  which 
pievailed  in  that  country  was  a  mixture  of  Latin  and  Gallic,  called 


lect.  xxxvu. J         FICTITIOUS  HISTORY.  419 

«.he  Roman  or  Romance  language ;  and,  as  the  stories  of  these  trouba- 
dours were  written  in  that  language,  hence  it  is  said  the  name  of 
Romance,  which  we  now  apply  to  all  fictitious  composition. 

The  earliest  of  these  romances  is  that  which  goes  under  the  name 
of  Turpin,  the  archbishop  of  Rheims,  written  in  the  11th  century. 
The  subject  is,  the  achievements  of  Charlemagne  and  his  peers, 
or  paladins,  in  driving  the  Saracens  out  of  France  and  part  oi 
Spain ;  the  same  subject  which  Ariosto  has  taken  for  his  celebrated 
poem  of  Orlando  Furioso,  which  is  truly  a  chivalry  romance,  as 
extravagant  as  any  of  the  rest,  but  partly  heroic,  and  partly  comic, 
embellished  with  the  highest  graces  of  poetry.  The  romance  of 
Turpin  was  followed  by  Amadis  de  Gaul,  and  many  more  of  the 
same  stamp.  The  crusades  both  furnished  new  matter,  and  in- 
creased the  spirit  for  such  writings  ;  the  Christians  against  the  Sara- 
cens made  the  common  groundwork  of  them;  and  from  the  lllh 
to  the  16th  century,  they  continued  to  bewitch  all  Europe.  In 
Spain,  where  the  taste  for  this  sort  of  writing  had  been  most 
greedily  caught,  the  ingenious  Cervantes,  in  the  beginning  of  the 
last  century,  contributed  greatly  to  explode  it;  and  the  abolition 
of  tournaments,  the  prohibition  of  single  combat,  the  disbelief 
of  magic  ar.d  enchantments,  and  the  change  in  general  of  man- 
ners throughout  Europe,  began  to  give  a  new  turn  to  fictitious  com- 
position. 

Then  appeared  the  Astraea  of  D'Urfe,  the  Grand  Cyrus,  the 
Clelia  and  Cleopatra  of  Madame  Scuderi,  the  Arcadia  of  Sir  Philip 
Sidney,  and  other  grave  and  stately  compositions  in  the  same  style. 
These  may  be  considered  as  forming  the  second  stage  of  romance 
writing.  The  heroism  and  the  gallantry,  the  moral  and  virtuous 
turn  of  the  chivalry  romance,  were  still  preserved  ;  but  the  dra- 
gons, the  necromancers,  and  the  enchanted  castles,  were  banished, 
and  some  small  resemblance  to  human  nature  was  introduced.  Stil 
however,  there  was  too  much  of  the  marvellous  in  them  to  pleast 
an  age  which  now  aspired  to  refinement.  The  characters  were  dis- 
cerned to  be  strained ;  the  style  to  be  swoln ;  the  adventures  incre- 
dible ;  the  books  themselves  were  voluminous  and  tedious. 

Hence,  this  sort  of  composition  soon  assumed  a  third  form,  and 
from  magnificent  heroic  romance,  dwindled  down  to  the  familiar 
novel.  These  novels,  both  in  France  and  England,  during  the  age  of 
Lewis  XIV.  and  King  Charles  II.  were  in  general  of  a  trifling  nature, 
without  the  appearance  of  moral  tendency,  or  useful  instruction. 
Since  that  time,  however,  somewhat  better  has  been  attempted,  and 
a  degree  of  reformation  introduced  into  the  spirit  of  novel  writing. 
Imitations  of  life  and  character  have  been  professed  to  be  given 
of  the  behaviour  of  persons  in  particular  interesting  situations,  such 
as  may  actually  occur  in  life ;  by  means  of  which,  what  is  lau- 
dable or  defective  in  character  and  in  conduct,  may  be  pointed 
out,  and  placed  in  a  useful  light.  Upon  this  plan,  the  French 
have  produced  some  compositions  of  considerable  merit.  Gil  Bias, 
bv  Le  Sage,  is  a  book  full  of  good  sense,  and  instructive  know 


*20  FICTITIOUS  HISTORY.  [lect.  xxxvii 

ledge  of  the  world.  The  works  of  Marivaux,  especially  his  Mari 
anne,  discover  great  refinement  of  thought,  great  penetration  into 
human  nature,  and  paint,  with  a  very  delicate  pencil,  some  of  the 
nicest  shades  and  features  in  the  distinction  of  characters.  The 
Nouvelle  Heloise  of  Rousseau  is  a  production  of  very  singular  kind  ; 
in  many  of  the  events  which  are  related,  improbable  and  unnatu- 
ral ;  in  some  of  the  details  tedious,  and  for  some  of  the  scenes 
which  are  described  justly  blamable;  but  withal,  for  the  power  of 
eloquence,  for  tenderness  of  sentiment,  for  ardour  of  passion,  enti- 
tled to  lank  among  the  highest  productions  of  fictitious  history. 

In  this  kind  of  writing  we  are,  it  must  be  confessed,  in  Great  Bri- 
tain, inferior  to  the  French.  We  neither  relate  so  agreeably,  nor 
draw  characters  with  so  much  delicacy;  yet  we  are  not  without 
some  performances  which  discover  the  strength  of  the  British  geni- 
us. No  fiction,  in  any  language,  was  ever  better  supported  than  the 
Adventures  of  Robinson  Crusoe.  While  it  is  carried  on  with  that 
appearance  of  truth  and  simplicity,  which  takes  a  strong  hold  of  the 
imagination  of  all  readers,  it  suggests,  at  the  same  time,  very  useful 
instruction;  by  showing  how  much  the  native  powers  of  man  may 
be  exerted  for  surmounting  the  difficulties  of  any  external  situation. 
Mr.  Fielding's  novels  are  highly  distinguished  for  their  humour;  a 
humour  which,  if  not  of  the  most  refined  and  delicate  kind,  is  origi- 
nal, and  peculiar  to  himself.  The  characters  which  he  draws  are 
lively  and  natural,  and  marked  with  the  strokes  of  a  bold  pencil. 
The  general  scope  of  his  stories  is  favourable  to  humanity  and  good- 
ness of  heart ;  and  in  Tom  Jones,  his  greatest  work,  the  artful  con- 
duct of  the  fable,  and  the  subserviency  of  all  the  incidents  to  the 
winding  up  of  the  whole,  deserve  much  praise.  The  most  moral  of 
all  our  novel  writers  is  Richardson,  the  author  of  Clarissa,  a  writer 
of  excellent  intentions,  and  of  very  considerable  capacity  and  geni- 
us ;  did  he  not  possess  the  unfortunate  talent  of  spinning  out  pieces  of 
amusement  into  an  immeasurable  length.  The  trivial  performances 
which  daily  appear  in  public  under  the  title  of  Lives,  Adventures, 
and  Histories,  by  anonymous  authors,  if  they  bo  often  innocent,  yel 
are  most  commonly  insipid;  and  though  in  the  general  it  ought  to 
be  admitted  that  characteristical  novels,  formed  upon  nature  and 
upon  life,  without  extravagance  and  without  licentiousness,  might 
furnish  an  agreeable  and  useful  entertainment  to  the  mind  ;  yet,  con- 
sidering: the  manner  in  which  these  writings  have  been  for  the  most 
part  conducted,  it  must  also  be  confessed,  that  they  oftener  tend  to 
dissipation  and  idleness,  than  to  any  good  purpose.  Let  us  now 
therefore,  make  our  retreat  from  these  regions  of  fiction 


(  420  a  ) 


QUESTIONS. 


Why  was  history  discoursed  of  fully, 
in  the  two  preceding  lectures  ?  Of  the 
remaining  species  of  composition  in 
prose,  what  is  observed?  What  is  the  first 
instance  given  ?  Why  are  not  the  style. 
form,  and  dress  of  such  writings,  mate- 
rial objects?  But  why,  at  the  same 
time,  are  they  objects  not  to  be  neglect- 
ed? What  is  it  manifest,  every  philoso- 
phical writer  must  study,  and  what  re- 
mark follows?  Beyond  mere  perspi- 
cuity, what  are  required  ?  How  is  this 
illustrated?  What,  then,  have  we  a 
right  to  demand,  from  every  philoso- 
phical writer?  But  as  he  may  possess 
this  quality,  and  still  be  a  very  dry 
writer,  what  should  he  study;  and 
why  ?  What  is  one  of  the  most  useful 
embellishments,  which  a  philosopher 
can  employ?  What  subjects  afford 
scope  for  these  ?  What  is  their  effect ; 
and  why  ?  What  styie  does  philosophi- 
cal writing  admit  ?  What  else  does  it 
admit?  About  what,  however,  must  he 
take  great  care?  What  have  some  of 
the  ancients  left  us?  Of  Seneca,  what 
is  observed  ?  What,  at  the  same  time, 
cannot  be  denied  ?  What  is  said  of  Mr. 
Locke'a  Treatise  on  Human  Under- 
standing ;  and  of  Lord  Shaftesbury's 
writings  ?  What  form  does  philosophical 
composition  sometimes  assume  ?  By 
whom  has  this  form  been  used?  In 
what  two  ways  may  it  be  executed? 
Of  these  diffident  methods,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  Of  a  dialogue  thus  conducted, 
what  is  remarked?  It  requires  more 
'han  whai,  a::d  what  ought  it  to  be? 
Why  does  a  dialogue  thus  conducted, 
give  the  reader  a  very  agreeable  enter- 
tainment, ?  What,  therefor* ,  has  an 
author  who  has  genius  for  executing 
such  a  composition  in  his  power  ?  Of 
the  greater  part  of  modern  dialogue 
writers,  what  is  observed?  How  is  this 
observation  illustrated?  From  what  re- 
marks does  it  appear  that  this  is  a  very 
frigid  and  insipid  manner  of  writing  ? 
What  is  said  of  the  dialogues  of  Plato? 
In  what  does  Plato  excel  all  writers, 
ancient  or  modern  ?  What  is  the  only 
fault  of  his  imagination?  Into  what 
does  it  frequently  carry  him  ?  In  what, 
is  the  philosopher  at  times  lost ;  and 
what  remark  follows  ?  What  is  obser- 
ved of  Cicero's  dialogues  ?  What  do 
-hey  show  us  ?  Who  has,  perhaps,  ex- 
celled Cicero  in  this  manner  of  writiig? 
Of  Lue'an,  as  p  dialogue  writer,  what 


is  observed?  Of  what  kind  of  ditogua 
has  he  given  us  the  model  ?  Whf  dis- 
tinguishes all  his  writings  ?  Whav.  was 
his  great  object ;  and  of  the  method  which 
he  took,  what  is  observed  ?  In  what  has 
he  been  followed  by  several  modern 
authors?  Who,  in  particular,  has  given 
us  dialogues  of  this  sort,  and  what  is 
said  of  them?  In  the  course  of  a  dia- 
logue, what  is  a  difficult  task  and 
why  ?  Hence,  what  follows  ?  Who  is 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  writers  of 
dialogues  in  the  English  language  ? 
Of  Ids  dialogues,  what  is  observed? 
What  is  the  character  of  Bishop 
Berkeley's  Dialogues?  To  what  sub- 
ject does  our  author  next  proceed  ?  Into 
what  does  epistolary  writing  appear  at 
first  view  to  stretch ;  and  why  ?  Hoav 
is  this  remark  illustrated  ?  But  for 
what  is  this  not  sufficient  ?  Of  writing 
of  this  kind,  what  is  further  observed  ? 
Even  where  one  is  writing  a  real  letter, 
what  is  remarked  ;  and  what,  instance 
is  given  ?  In  such  cases,  bow  do  we 
consider  the  author  ?  When  does  epis- 
tolary writing  become  a  distinct  spe- 
cies of  composition  ?  Of  such  an  inter- 
course, what  is  observed;  and  when 
will  they  be  the  more  valuable?  Even 
when  may  they  still  be  interesting,  and 
more  especially  if  there  be  any  thing 
to  interest  us  in  what  ?  Hence,  what 
curiosity ;  and  why?  To  expect  what 
is  childish ;  and  for  what  reason  ?  But 
still,  why  may  we  expect  to  see  more 
of  the  character  displayed  in  these 
than  in  any  other  productions?  With 
what  do  we  please  ourselves?  Upon 
what,  therefore,  will  much  of  the  merit 
of  epistolary  writing  depend  ?  What  ia 
its  first  and  fundamental  requisite ;  and 
why  ?  What  does  this  not  banish ;  and 
of  these,  what  is  observed  ?  Who  will 
not  please  long  ?  Of  the  style  of  letters, 
what  is  remarked?  What  does  all 
nicety  about  words  betray ;  and , hence 
what  should  be  avoided?  Which  are 
the  best  letters?  How  is  this  illustrated ' 
What  ought,  at  the  same  time,  to  be 
remembered  ?  How  is  this  remark  illus- 
trated? What  is  the  first  requisite,  both 
in  conversation, and  in  correspondence? 
What  illustration  of  this  remark  fo'- 
lows? 

Of  Pliny's  Letters,  what  is  observed'/ 
What  is,  indeed,  a  very  difficult  taek  ? 
What  is  the  effect  of  attention  to  the 
epinion  of  the  world,  in  what  he  says? 


420  b 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  XXXVII 


What  is  the  character  of  Cicero's  Epis- 
tles? Of  them,  what  is  farther  observed? 
From  What  does  it  appear  that  they  were 
written  without  any  intention  of  being 
published  to  the  world?  What  do  they 
contain  ;  and  of  what  are  they  the  last 
monument  ?  The  greatest  part  of  them 
being  written  when  ?  To  whom  does 
Cicero  lay  open  his  heart  without 
reserve?  Of  his  correspondence  with 
others,  what  is  remarked?  What  is  the 
most  distinguished  collection  of  letters 
in  the  English  language ;  and  where 
are  they  published?  What  is  the  gene- 
ral character  of  this  collection  ?  What 
is  observed  of  those  of  Dr.  Arbuthnot? 
What  proof  is  there  that  Dean  Swift's 
letters  are  unaffected  ?  What,  however, 
were  to  be  wished?  Several  of  whose 
letters  are  masterly;  and  of  Mr.  Pope's, 
what  is  observed  ?  What  instance  of  af- 
fectation have  we  from  a  letter  to  Mr. 
Addison  ;  and  also  to  Bishop  Atterbury  ? 
Of  the  latter  sentence,  what  is  obser- 
ved ?  What  appears  to  much  advan- 
tage in  the  letters  of  French  writers ; 
and  to  what  have  they  given  birth  ?  In 
the  last  age,  who  were  the  two  most 
celebrated  epistolary  writers?  Why 
did  Balzac's  reputation  soon  decline  ? 
Why  did  Voiture  continue  long  a  fa- 
vourite author?  Wrhat  is  his  only  fault? 
Whose  letters  are  now  esteemed  the 
most  accomplished  model  of  a  familiar 
correspondence?  Of  them,  what  is  fur- 
ther observed  ?  Of  the  letters  of  Lady 
Mary  Wortley  Montague,  what  is  re- 
marked ?  What  other  species  of  com- 
position remains  to  be  treated  of?  How 
may  these,  at  first  view,  seem  ?  What 
does  Mr.  Fletcher,  in  one  of  his  tracts, 
quote,  as  the  saying  of  a  wise  man  ? 
Of  this  saying,  what  is  observed ;  and 
why?  Why  might  fictitious  histories 
be  employed  for  very  useful  purposes  ? 
How  is  this  illustrated  ?  Of  what  have 
these  ever  been  the  basis  ?  What  re- 
mark, therefore,  follows?  Of  what  does 
Lord  Bacon  take  notice ;  and  what 
does  he  observe?  On  what,  therefore, 
shall  we  make  a  few  observations? 
Of  its  origin,  what  is  remarked  ?  What 
is  observed  of  the  genius  of  eastern 
nations;  and  how  is  this  illustrated? 
What  is  said  of  Arabian  Nights  Enter- 
tainments? Among  the  ancient  Greeks, 
of  what  do  we  hear ;  and  what  is  said 
of  them  ?  What  fictitious  histories  still 
remain ;  and  of  them,  what  is  observed  ? 
Of  this  sort  of  writing  durinar  the  dark 
ages,  what  is  remarked  ?  What  gave 


rise,  in  those  times,  to  that  marvellous 
system  of  chivalry,  which  is  one  of  i  he 
most  singular  appearances  in  the  histo- 
ry  of  mankind  ?  Upon  this,  what  were 
found-d  ?  In  them,  what  was  display- 
ed ?  What  merit  did  they  possess  ?  How 
is  this  remark  illustrated  ?  To  what  is 
the  origin  of  this  name  traced;  and  by 
whom  ?  Which  is  the  earliest  of  these 
romances  ;  and  what  ia  the  subject  of 
it  ?  For  what  celebrated  poem  is  the 
same  subject  taken ;  and  what  is  ob- 
served of  it  ?  By  what  was  the  romance 
of  Turpin  followed?  What  was  the 
effect  of  the  crusades?  Who,  in  the  be- 
ginning of  the  last  century,  contributed 
greatly  to  explode  this  kind  of  writing; 
and  what  followed  ?  What  then  ap- 
peared ;  and  how  may  these  be  consider- 
ed 1  What  were  still  preserved ;  but 
what  was  banished  ?  Still  what  objec- 
tion was  there  to  them  ?  Hence,  whal 
form  did  this  sort  of  composition  soon  as- 
sume ?  Of  these  novels  what  is  obser- 
ved ?  Upon  this  plan,  what  have  the 
French  effected  ?  Of  Gil  Bias,  what  is 
observed  ?  What  is  the  character  of 
the  works  of  Marivaux?  Of  the  Nou- 
velle  Heloise  of  Rousseau,  what  is  re 
marked?  What  is  the  state  of  this  kind 
of  writing  in  Great  Britain  ?  In  what 
respects  arc  we  inferior  to  them  ;  yet 
what  remark  follows  ?  To  illustrate  this, 
what  work  is  mentioned ;  and  what  is 
observed  cf  it  ?  What  is  the  character 
of  Mr.  Fielding's  novels ;  and  how  are 
his  characters  drawn?  Why  does  hie 
Tom  Jones  deserve  much  praise  ?  Who 
is  the  most  moral  of  all  our  novel  wri- 
ters; and  of  him,  what  is  observed* 
What  is  remarked  of  the  trivial  per- 
formances which  daily  appear  ? 


ANALYSIS. 

1.  Philosophical  writing1. 

a.  Its  object. 

b.  Perspicuity,  its  first  requisite. 

c.  It  admits  of  a  polished,  neat,  and  ela 

{rant  style. 

2.  Dialogue. 

a.  A  direct  conversation. 

b.  The  recital  of  a  conversation. 

c.  Ancient  and  modern  dialogists. 

3.  Epistolary  writing". 

a.  When  a  distinct  speciesof  composition. 

b.  It  must  acquaint  us  with  the  author. 

c.  Distinguished   ancient    and    modern 

epistolary  writers. 

4.  Fictitious  history. 

a.  Lord  Bacon's  remark. 

b.  Its  origin,  very  ancient. 

c.  Iu*  different  forms. 

d.  The  most  distinguished  production 

of  this  kind. 


(  421  ) 

LECTURE  XXXVIII. 


NATURE  OF  POETRY.. ..ITS  ORIGIN  ANI  PRO 
GRESS....VERSIFICATION 

I  have  now  finished  my  observations  on  the  different  kinds  of 
writing  in  prose.  What  remains  is,  to  treat  of  poetical  composition 
Before  entering  on  the  consideration  of  any  of  its  particular  kinds,  1 
design  this  lecture  as  an  introduction  to  the  subject  of  poetry  in 
general,  wherein  I  shall  treat  of  its  nature,  give  an  account  of  its  ori- 
gin, and  make  some  observations  on  versification,  or  poetical  num- 
bers. 

Our  first  inquiry  must  be,  What  is  poetry  ?  and  wherein  does  it 
differ  from  prose  ?  The  answer  to  this  question  is  not  so  easy  as 
might  at  first  be  imagined  ;  and  critics  have  differed  and  disputed 
much,  concerning  the  proper  definition  of  poetry.  Some  have  made 
its  essence  to  consist  in  fiction,  and  support  their  opinion  by  the  au- 
thority of  Aristotle  and  Plato.  But  this  is  certainly  too  limited  a  de- 
finition ;  for  though  fiction  may  have  a  great  share  in  many  poetical 
compositions,  yet  many  subjects  of  poetry  may  not  be  feigned;  as 
where  the  poet  describes  objects  which  actually  exist,  or  pours  forth 
the  real  sentiments  of  his  own  heart.  Others  have  made  the  cha 
racteristic  of  poetry  to  lie  in  imitation.  But  this  is  altogether  loose  : 
for  several  other  arts  imitate  as  well  as  poetry ;  and  an  imitation  of 
human  manners  and  characters  may  be  carried  on  in  the  humblest 
prose,  no  less  than  in  the  more  lofty  poetic  strain. 

The  most  just  and  comprehensive  definition  which,  I  think,  can 
be  given  of  poetry,  is,  '  that  it  is  the  language  of  passion,  or  of  en- 
livened imagination,  formed,  most  commonly,  into  regular  numbers/ 
The  historian,  the  orator,  the  philosopher,  address  themselves,  for 
the  most  part,  primarily  to  the  understanding:  their  direct  aim  is  to 
!nfoim,  to  persuade,  or  to  instruct.  But  the  primary  aim  of  a  poet 
is  to  please,  and  to  move ;  and,  therefore,  it  is  to  the  imagination,  and 
the  passions,  that  he  speaks.  He  may,  and  he  ought  to  have  it  in 
his  view,  to  instruct,  and  to  reform  ;  but  it  is  indirectly,  and  by  pleas 
ing  and  moving,  that  he  accomplishes  this  end.  His  mind  is  sup 
posed  to  be  animated  by  some  interesting  object  which  fires  his  ima- 
gination, or  engages  his  passions;  and  which,  of  course,  communi- 
cates to  his  style  a  peculiar  elevation  suited  to  his  ideas;  very  differ* 
ent  from  that  mode  of  expression,  which  is  natural  to  the  mind  in 
its  calm,  ordinary  state.  I  have  added  to  my  definition,  that  this 
language  of  passion,  or  imagination,  is  formed,  m.ost  commonly ',  into 
regular  numbers;  because,  though  versification  be,  in  general,  the 
exterior  distinction  of  poetry,  yet  there  are  some  forms  of  verse 
so  loose  and  familiar,  as  to  be  hardly  distinguishable  from  prose 
such  as  the  verse  of  Terence's  Comedies;  and  there  is  also  a  species 
of  prose,  so  measured  in  its  cadence,  and  so  much  raised  in  its  tone. 
3P 


422  ORIGIN  AND  PROGRESS        [lect.  xxxvm 

as  to  approach  very  near  to  poetical  numbers ;  such  as  the  Telema- 
chus  of  Fenelon  ;  and  the  English  translation  of  Ossian.  The  truth 
is,  verse  and  prose,  on  some  occasions,  run  into  one  another,  like 
light  and  shade.  It  is  hardly  possible  to  determine  the  exact  limit 
where  eloquence  ends,  and  poetry  begins ;  nor  is  there  any  occasion 
for  being  very  precise  about  the  boundaries,  as  long  as  the  nature  of 
each  is  understood.  These  are  the  minutiae  of  criticism,  concerning 
which,  frivolous  writers  are  always  disposed  to  squabble ;  but  which 
deserve  not  any  particular  discussion.  The  truth  and  justness  of  the 
definition,  which  I  have  given  of  poetry,  will  appear  more  fully  from 
the  account  which  I  am  now  to  give  of  its  origin ;  and  which  will 
tend  to  throw  light  on  much  of  what  I  am  afterwards  to  deliver, 
concerning  its  various  kinds. 

The  Greeks,  ever  fond  of  attributing  to  their  own  nation  the  in- 
vention of  all  sciences  and  arts,  have  ascribed  the  origin  of  poetry 
to  Orpheus,  Linus,  and  Musaeus.  There  were,  perhaps,  such  per- 
sons as  these,  who  were  the  first  distinguished  bards  in  the  Grecian 
countries.  But  long  before  such  names  were  heard  of,  and  among 
nations  where  they  were  never  known,  poetry  existed.  It  is  a  great 
error  to  imagine,  that  poetry  and  music  are  arts  which  belong  only 
to  polished  nations.  They  have  their  foundation  in  the  nature  of 
man,  and  belong  to  all  nations,  and  to  all  ages;  though,  like  other 
arts  founded  in  nature,  they  have  been  more  cultivated,  and  from  a 
concurrence  of  favourable  circumstances,  carried  to  greater  perfec- 
tion in  some  countries  than  in  others.  In  order  to  explore  the  rise 
of  poetry,  we  must  have  recourse  to  the  deserts  and  the  wilds;  we 
must  go  back  to  the  age  of  hunters  and  of  shepherds;  to  the  high- 
est antiquity;  and  to  the  simplest  form  of  manners  among  mankind. 

It  has  been  often  said,  and  the  concurring  voice  of  all  antiquity 
affirms,  that  poetry  is  older  than  prose.  But  in  what  sense  this 
seemingly  strange  paradox  holds  true,  has  not  always  been  well  un- 
derstood. There  never,  certainly,  was  any  period  of  society,  in  which 
men  conversed  together.in  poetical  numbers.  It  was  in  very  humble 
and  scanty  prose,  as  we  may  easily  believe,  that  the  first  tribes  car- 
ried on  intercourse  among  themselves,  relating  to  the  wants  and  ne- 
cessities of  life.  But  from  the  very  beginningof  society,  there  were 
occasions  on  which  they  met  together  for  feasts,  sacrifices,  and  pub- 
lic assemblies;  and  on  all  such  occasions,  it  is  well  known,  that  mu- 
sic, song,  and  dance,  made  their  principal  entertainment.  It  is 
chiefly  in  America,  that  we  have  had  the  opportunity  of  being  made 
acquainted  with  men  in  their  savage  state.  We  learn  from  the  par- 
ticular and  concurring  accounts  of  travellers,  that  among  all  the  na- 
tions of  that  vast  continent,  especially  among  the  northern  tribes,  with 
whom  wo  have  had  most  intercourse,  music  and  song  are,  at  ail  theii 
meetings,  carried  on  with  an  incredible  degree  of  enthusiasm  ;  that 
the  chiefs  of  the  tribe  are  those  who  signalize  themselves  most  on 
such  occasions;  that  it  is  in  songs  they  celebrate  their  religious 
rites;  that  by  these  they  lamer.t  their  public  and  private  calamities, 
the  death  of  friends,  or  the  loss  of  warriors;  express  their  joy  on 
their  victories ;  celebrate  the  great  actions  of  their  nation,  and  their 


lect. xxxvm.]  UF  POETRY.  423 

neroes ;  excite  each  other  to  perform  brave  exploits  in  war,  or  suf 
fer  death  and  torments  with  unshaken  constancy. 

Here  then  we  see  the  first  beginnings  of  poetic  composition,  h 
those  rude  effusions,  which  the  enthusiasm  of  fancy  or  passion  sug- 
gested to  untaught  men,  when  roused  by  interesting  events,  and  by 
their  meeting  together  in  public  assemblies.  Two  particulars  would 
early  distinguish  this  language  of  song,  from  that  in  which  they  con- 
versed on  the  common  occurrences  of  life;  namely,  an  unusual  ar- 
rangement of  words,  and  the  employment  of  bold  figures  of  speech. 
It  would  invert  words,  or  change  them  from  that  order  in  which  thev 
are  commonly  placed,  to  that  which  most  suited  the  train  in  which 
they  rose  in  the  speaker's  imagination,  or  which  was  most  accommo- 
dated to  the  cadence  of  the  passion  by  which  he  was  moved.  Under  the 
influence  too  of  any  strong  emotion,  objects  do  not  appear  to  us  such 
as  they  really  are,  but  such  as  passion  makes  us  see  them.  We 
magnify  and  exaggerate;  we  seek  to  interest  all  others  in  what  cau- 
ses our  emotion;  we  compare  the  least  things  to  the  greatest;  we 
call  upon  the  absent  as  well  as  the  present,  and  even  address  our 
selves  to  things  inanimate.  Hence,  in  congruity  with  those  various 
movements  of  the  mind,  arise  those  turns  of  expression,  which  we 
now  distinguish  by  the  learned  names  of  hyperbole,  prosopopoeia, 
simile,  &c.  but  which  are  no  other  than  the  native  original  langoage 
of  poetry  among  the  most  barbarous  nations. 

Man  is  both  a  poet  and  a  musician  by  nature.  The  same  impulse 
which  prompted  the  enthusiastic  poetic  style,  prompted  a  certain 
melody,  or  modulation  of  sound,  suited  to  the  emotions  of  joy  or 
grief,  of  admiration,  love,  or  anger.  There  is  a  power  in  sound, 
which,  partly  from  nature,  partly  from  habit  and  association,  makes 
such  pathetic  impressions  on  the  fancy,  as  delight  even  the  most  wild 
barbarians.  Music  and  poetry,  therefore,  had  the  same  rise:  they 
were  prompted  by  the  same  occasions  ;  they  were  united  in  song  ; 
and,  as  long  as  they  continued  united,  they  tended,  without  doubt, 
mutually  to  heighten  and  exalt  each  other's  power.  The  first  poets 
sung  their  own  verses;  and  hence  the  beginning  of  what  we  call 
versification,  or  words  arranged  in  a  more  artful  order  than  prose,  so 
as  to  be  suited  to  some  tune  or  melody.  The  liberty  of  transposi- 
tion, or  inversion,  which  the  poetic  style,  as  I  observed,  would  natu- 
rally assume,  made  it  easier  to  form  the  words  into  some  sort  of 
numbers  that  fell  in  with  the  music  of  the  song.  Very  harsh  and 
uncouth,  we  may  easily  believe,  these  numbers  would  be  at  first. 
But  the  pleasure  was  felt ;  it  was  studied  ;  and  versification,  by  de- 
grees, passed  into  an  art. 

It  appears  from  what  has  been  said,  that  the  first  compositions 
which  were  either  recorded  by  writing,  or  transmitted  by  tradition, 
could  be  no  other  than  poetical  compositions.  No  other  than  these 
could  draw  the  attention  of  men  in  their  rude  uncivilized  state.  In- 
deed, they  knew  no  other.  Cool  reasoning  and  plain  discourse  had 
no  power  to  attract  savage  tribes,  addicted  only  to  hunting  and  war. 
There  was  nothing  that  could  either  rouse  the  speaker  to  pour  him- 
86if  forth,  or  to  draw  the  crowd  to  listen,  but  the  high  powers  of  pas* 


424  ORIGIN  AND  PROGRESS         [lect.  xxxviii 

sion,  of  music,  and  of  song.  This  vehicle,  therefore,  and  no  other 
.ijould  be  employed  by  chiefs  and  legislators,  when  they  meant  to  in- 
struct or  to  animate  their  tribes.  There  is,  likewise,  a  farther  reason 
why  such  compositions  only  could  be  transmitted  to  posterity  ;  be- 
cause, before  writing  was  invented,  songs  only  could  last,  and  be  re- 
membered. The  ear  gave  assistance  to  the  memory,  by  the  help 
of  numbers  ;  fathers  repeated  and  sung  them  to  their  children  ;  and 
by  this  oral  tradition  of  national  ballads,  were  conveyed  all  the  his- 
torical knowledge,  and  all  the  instruction  of  the  first  ages. 

The  earliest  accounts  which  history  gives  us  concerning  all  na- 
tions, bear  testimony  to  these  facts.  In  the  first  ages  of  G  reece,  priests, 
philosophers,  and  statesmen,  all  delivered  their  instructions  in  poetry. 
Apollo, Orpheus, and  Amphion,  their  mostancient  bards, arerepresent- 
fcdas  the  first  tamers  of  mankind,  the  first  founders  of  law  and  civili- 
sation. Minos  and  Thales  sung  to  the  lyre  the  laws  which  they  com- 
posed ;*  and  till  the  age  immediately  preceding  that  of  Herodotus, 
history  had  appeared  in  no  other  form  than  that  of  poetical  tales. 

In  the  same  manner,  among  all  other  nations,  poets  and  songs  are 
the  first  objects  that  make  their  appearance.  Among  the  Scythian 
or  Gothic  nations,  many  of  their  kings  and  leaders  were  scalders,  or 
poets;  and  it  is  from  their  Runic  songs,  that  the  most  early  writers 
of  their  history,  such  as  Saxo-Grammaticus,  acknowledge  that  they 
had  derived  their  chief  information.  Among  the  Celtic  tribes,  in 
Gaul,  Britain,  and  Ireland,  we  know  in  what  admiration  their  bards 
were  held,  and  how  great  influence  they  possessed  over  the  people. 
They  were  both  poets  and  musicians,  as  all  the  first  poets,  in  every 
country,  were.  They  were  always  near  the  person  of  the  chief  or 
sovereign ;  they  recorded  all  his  great  exploits ;  they  were  employ- 
ed as  the  ambassadors  between  contending  tribes,  and  their  persons 
were  held  sacred. 

From  this  deduction  it  follows,  that  as  we  have  reason  to  look  for 
poems  and  songs  among  the  antiqu.'*:es  of  all  countries,  so  we  may 
expect,  that  in  the  strain  of  these  there  will  be  a  remarkable  resem- 
blance, during  the  primitive  periods  of  every  country.  The  occa- 
sions of  their  being  composed,  are  every  where  nearly  the  same. 
The  praises  of  gods  and  heroes,  the  celebration  of  famed  ancestors, 
the  recital  of  martial  deeds,  songs  of  victory,  and  songs  of  lamenta- 
tion over  the  misfortunes  and  death  of  their  countrymen,  occur 
among  all  nations;  and  the  same  enthusiasm  and  fire,  the  same  wild 
and  irregular,  but  animated  composition,  concise  and  glowirg 
style,  bold  and  extravagant  figures  of  speech,  are  the  general  distin- 
guishing characters  of  all  the  most  ancient  original  poetry.  That 
strong  hyperbolical  manner  which  we  have  been  long  accustomed 
to  call  the  oriental  manner  of  poetry,  (because  some  of  the  earliest 
poetical  productions  came  to  us  from  the  East.)  is  in  truth  no  mor? 
oriental  than  occidental ;  it  is  characteristical  of  an  age  rather  than  oi 
a  country ;  and  belongs,  in  some  measure,  to  all  nations  at  that  pe- 
riod which  first  gives  rise  to  music  and  to  song.     Mankind  never  re- 

*  Strabo,  lib.  x. 


lect.  xxxviii.]  OF  POETRY  425 

semble  each  other  so  much  as  they  do  in  the  beginnings  of  society. 
Us  subsequent  revolutions  give  birth  to  the  principal  distinctions  of 
character  among  nations,  and  divert,  into  channels  widely  separated, 
that  current  of  human  genius  and  manners,  which  descends  origin 
ally  from  one  spring. 

Diversity  of  climate,  and  of  manner  of  living,  will,  however,  oc 
casion  some  diversity  in  the  strain  of  the  first  poetry  of  nations 
chiefly  according  as  those  nations  are  of  a  more  ferocious,  or  of  a 
more  gentle  spirit;  and  according  as  they  advance  faster  or  slower 
in  the  arts  of  civilization.  Thus  we  find  all  the  remains  of  the  an- 
cient Gothic  poetry  remarkably  fierce,  and  breathing  nothing  but 
slaughter  and  blood;  while  the  Peruvian  and  the  Chinese  songs 
turned,  from  the  earliest  times,  upon  milder  subjects.  The  Celtic 
poetry,  in  the  days  of  Ossian,  though  chiefly  of  the  martial  kind, 
yet  had  attained  a  considerable  mixture  of  tenderness  and  refine- 
ment ;  in  consequence  of  the  long  cultivation  of  poetry  among  the 
Celtae,  by  means  of  a  series  and  succession  of  bards  which  had  been 
established  for  ages.     So  Lucan  informs  us : 

Vos  quoque  qui  fortes  animos,  belloque  peremptos 

Laudibus  in  loitgum  vates  diftunditis  aevuni, 

Plurima  securi  ludistis  carmina  bardi.*  L.  44. 

Among  the  Grecian  nations,  their  early  poetry  appears  to  have 
soon  received  a  philosophical  cast,  from  what  we  are  informed  con- 
cerning the  subjects  of  Orpheus,  Linus,  and  Musseus,  who  treated  of 
creation  and  of  ehaos,  of  the  generation  of  the  world,  and  of  the 
rise  of  things;  and  we  know  that  the  Greeks  advanced  sooner  to 
philosophy,  and  proceeded  with  a  quicker  pace  in  all  the  arts  of  re- 
finement, than  most  other  nations. 

The  Arabians  and  the  Persians  have  always  been  the  greatest  po- 
ets of  the  east;  and  among  them,  as  among  other  nations,  poetry 
was  the  earliest  vehicle  of  all  their  learning  and  instruction.!  The 
ancient  Arabs,  we  are  informed, J  valued  themselves  much  on  their 
metrical  compositions,  which  were  of  two  sorts;  the  one  they  com- 
pared to  loose  pearls,  and  the  other  to  pearls  strung.  In  the  former, 
the  sentences  or  verses  were  without  connexion  ;  and  their  beauty 
arose  from  the  elegance  of  the  expression,  and  the  acuteness  of  the 
sentiment.  The  moral  doctrines  of  the  Persians  were  generally 
comprehended  in  such  independent  proverbial  apophthegms,  formed 
into  verse.  In  this  respect  they  bear  a  considerable  resemblance  to 
the  Proverbs  of  Solomon ;  a  great  part  of  which  book  consists  of 
unconnected  poetry,  like  the  loose  pearls  of  the  Arabians.  The 
game  form  of  composition  appears  also  in  the  book  of  Job.     The 

•  You  too,  ye  bards,  whom  sacred  raptures  fire, 

To  chaunt  your  heroes  to  your  country's  lyre, 

Who  consecrate  in  your  immortal  strain, 

Brave  patriot  souls  in  righteous  battle  slain ; 

Securely  now  the  useful  task  renew, 

And  noblest  themes  in  deathless  song's  pursue  Rows. 

(  Vid.  Voyages  de  Chardin,  chap  de  la  Poe"sie  des  Persans. 
{  Vid.  Preliminary  discourse  to  Sale's  Translation  ?f  the  Koran 
54 


«*26  ORIGIN  AND  PROGRESS         [lect.  xxxvm 

Greeks  seem   to  have  been  the  first  who  introduced  a  more  regjular 
structure,  and  closer  connexion  of  parts,  into  their  poetical  writings. 

During  the  infancy  of  poetry,  all  the  different  kinds  of  it  lay 
confused,  and  were  mingled  in  the  same  composition,  according 
as  inclination,  enthusiasm,  or  casual  incidents,  directed  the  po- 
et's strain.  In  the  progress  of  society  and  arts,  they  began  to 
assume  those  different  regular  forms,  and  to  be  distinguished  by 
those  different  names  under  which  we  now  know  them.  But  in 
the  first  rude  state  of  poetical  effusions,  we  can  easily  discern  the 
seeds  and  beginnings  of  all  the  kinds  of  regular  poetry.  Odes  and 
hymns,  of  every  sort,  would  naturally  be  among  the  first  compo- 
sitions ;  according  as  the  bards  were  moved  by  religious  feelings, 
by  exultation,  resentment,  love,  or  any  other  warm  sentiment,  to 
pour  themselves  forth  in  song.  Plaintive  or  elegiac  poetry,  would 
as  naturally  arise  from  lamentations  over  their  deceased  friends. 
The  recital  of  the  achievements  of  their  heroes,  and  their  ancestors, 
gave  birth  to  what  we  now  call  epic  poetry  ;  and  as  not  content  with 
simply  reciting  these,  they  would  infallibly  be  led,  at  some  of  their 
public  meetings,  to  represent  them,  by  introducing  different  bards, 
speaking  in  the  character  of  their  heroes,  and  answering  each  other, 
we  find  in  this  the  first  outlines  of  tragedy,  or  dramatic  writing. 

None  of  these  kinds  of  poetry,  however,  were  in  the  first  ages 
of  society  properly  distinguished  or  separated,  as  they  are  now, 
from  each  other.  Indeed,  not  only  were  the  different  kinds  ot 
poetry  then  mixed  together,  but  all  that  we  now  call  letters,  or 
composition  of  any  kind,  was  then  blended  in  one  mass.  At  first, 
history,  eloquence,  and  poetry,  were  all  the  same.  Whoever  want- 
ed to  move  or  to  persuade,  to  inform  or  to  entertain  his  countrymen 
and  neighbours,  whatever  was  the  subject,  accompanied  his  sentiment 
and  tales  with  the  melody  of  song.  This  was  the  case  in  that  period 
of  society,  when  the  character  and  occupations  of  the  husbandman 
and  the  builder,  the  warrior  and  fehe  statesman,  were  united  in  one 
person.  When  the  progress  of  society  brought  on  a  separation  of  the 
different  arts  and  professions  of  civil  life,  it  led  also  by  degrees  to  a 
separation  of  the  different  literary  provinces  from  each  other. 

The  art  of  writing  was  in  process  of  time  invented;  records  of 
past  transactions  began  to  be  kept;  men,  occupied  with  the  subjects 
of  policy  and  useful  arts,  wished  now  to  be  instructed  and  inform- 
ed, as  well  as  moved.  They  reasoned  and  reflected  upon  the 
affairs  of  life;  and  were  interested  by  what  was  real,  not  fabulous, 
in  past  transactions.  The  historian,  therefore,  now  laid  aside  the 
buskins  of  poetry ;  he  wrote  in  prose,  and  attempted  to  give  a 
faithful  and  judicious  relation  of  former  events.  The  philosopher 
addressed  himself  chiefly  to  the  understanding.  The  orator  stu- 
died to  persuade  by  reasoning,  and  retained  more  or  less  of  the 
ancient  passionate  and  glowing  style,  according  as  it  was  conducive 
to  his  purpose.  Poetry  became  now  a  separate  art,  calculated 
chiefly  to  please,  and  confined  generally  to  such  subjects  as  related 
to  the  imagination  and  passions.  Even  its  earliest  companion,  music, 
was  in  a  great  measure  divided  from  it. 


lect.  xxxvin.]  OF  POETRY.  427 

These  separations,  brought  all  the  literary  arts  into  a  more  regular 
form,  and  contributed  to  the  exact  and  accurate  cultivation  oi 
each.  Poetry,  however,  in  its  ancient  original  condition,  was  per- 
haps more  vigorous  than  it  is  in  its  modern  state.  It  included 
then  the  whole  burst  of  the  human  mind;  the  whole  exertion  of  its 
imaginative  faculties.  It  spoke  then  the  language  of  passion,  and 
no  other ;  for  to  passion,  it  owed  its  birth.  Prompted  and  inspired 
by  objects,  which  to  him  seemed  great,  by  events  which  interested 
his  eountry  or  his  friends,  the  early  bard  arose  and  sung.  He  sung 
indeed  in  wild  and  disorderly  strains ;  but  they  were  the  native  effu- 
sions of  his  heart;  they  were  the  ardent  conceptions  of  admiration 
or  resentment,  of  sorrow  or  friendship,  which  he  poured  forth.  It 
is  no  wonder,  therefore,  that  in  the  rude  and  artless  strain  of  the 
first  poetry  of  all  nations,  we  should  often  find  somewhat  that  capti- 
vates and  transports  the  mind.  In  after  ages,  when  poetry  became 
a  regular  art,  studied  for  reputation  and  for  gain,  authors  began  to 
affect  what  they  did  not  feel.  Composing  coolly  in  their  closets, 
*hey  endeavoured  to  imitate  passion,  rather  than  to  express  it;  they 
tried  to  force  their  imagination  into  raptures,  or  to  supply  the  defect 
t>f  native  warmth,  by  those  artificial  ornaments  which  might  give 
composition  a  splendid  appearance. 

The  separation  of  music  from  poetry,  produced  consequences  noi 
favourable  in  some  respects  to  poetry,  and  in  many  respects  hurtful 
to  music*  As  long  as  they  remained  united,  music  enlivened  and 
animated  poetry,  and  poetry  gave  force  and  expression  to  musi- 
cal sound.  The  music  of  that  early  period  was,  beyond  doubt,  ex  • 
tremely  simple ;  and  must  have  consisted  chiefly  of  such  pathetic 
notes,  as  the  voice  could  adapt  to  the  words  of  the  song.  Musical 
instruments,  such  as  flutes,  and  pipes,  and  a  lyre  with  a  very  few 
strings,  appear  to  have  been  early  invented  among  some  nations;  but 
no  more  was  intended  by  these  instruments,  than  simply  to  accom- 
pany the  voice,  and  to  heighten  the  melody  of  song.  The  poet's 
strain  was  always  heard  ;  and,  from  many  circumstances,  it  appears, 
that  among  the  ancient  Greeks,  as  well  as  among  other  nations,  the 
bard  sung  his  verses,  and  played  upon  his  harp  or  lyre  at  the  same 
time.  In  this  state,  the  art  of  music  was,when  it  produced  all  those 
great  effects,  of  which  we  read  so  much  in  ancient  history.  And 
certain  it  is,  that  from  simple  music  only,  and  from  music  accom- 
panied with  verse  or  song,  we  are  to  look  for  strong  expression, 
and  powerful  influence  over  the  human  mind.  When  instrumental 
music  came  to  be  studied  as  a  separate  art,  divested  of  the  poet's 
song,  and  formed  into  the  artificial  and  intricate  combinations  of 
harmony,  it  lost  all  its  ancient  power  of  inflaming  the  hearers  with 
strong  emotions ;  and  sunk  into  an  art  of  mere  amusement,  among 
polished  and  luxurious  nations. 

Still,  however,  poetry  preserves,  in  all  countries,  some  remains 
of  its  first  and  original  connexion  with  music.     By  being  uttered 

*  See  Dr.  Brown's  Dissertation  on  the  Rise,  Union,  and  Separation  of  Poetry  ana 
Miisic 


428  VERSIFICATION.  [lect.  xxxvm 

in  song,  it  was  formed  into  numbers,  or  into  an  artificial  arrangement 
of  words  and  syllables,  very  different  in  different  countries;  but  such, 
as  to  the  inhabitants  of  each,  seemed  most  melodious  and  agree 
able  in  sound.  Whence  arises  thatgreat  characteristic  of  poetry  which 
we  now  call  verse;  a  subject  which  comes  next  to  be  treated  of. 

It  is  a  subject  of  a  curious  nature  ;  but  as  I  am  sensible,  that  were 
I  to  pursue  it  as  far  as  my  inclination  leads,  it  would  give  rise  to 
discussions,  which  the  greater  part  of  readers  would  consider  as 
minute,  I  shall  confine  myself  to  a  few  observations  upon  English 
versification. 

Nations,  whose  language  and  pronunciation  were  of  a  musical 
kind,  rested  their  versification  chiefly  upon  the  quantities,  that  is, 
the  length  or  shortness  of  their  syllables.  Others,  who  did  not  make 
the  quantities  of  their  syllables  be  so  distinctly  perceived  in  pro- 
nouncing them,  rested  the  melody  of  their  verse  upon  the  number 
of  syllables  it  contained,  upon  the  proper  disposition  of  accents  and 
pauses  in  it,  and  frequently  upon  that  return  of  corresponding  sounds, 
which  we  call  rhyme.  The  former  was  the  case  with  the  Greeks 
and  Romans;  the  latter  is  the  case  with  us,  and  with  most  modern 
nations.  Among  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  every  syllable,  or  the  far 
greatest  number  at  least,  was  known  to  have  a  fixed  and  determined 
quantity  ;  and  their  manner  of  pronouncing  rendered  this  so  sensible 
to  the  ear,  that  a  long  syllable  was  counted  precisely  equal  in  time 
to  two  short  ones.  Upon  this  principle,  the  number  of  syllables  con- 
tained in  their  hexameter  verse  was  allowed  to  vary.  It  may  extend 
to  17;  it  can  contain,  when  regular,  no  fewer  than  13;  but  the  mu- 
sical time  was,  notwithstanding,  precisely  the  same  in  every  hexa- 
meter verse,  and  was  always  equal  tothatofl2longsyllables.  In  order 
to  ascertain  the  regular  time  of  every  verse,  and  the  proper  mixture 
and  succession  of  long  and  short  syllables  which  ought  to  compose 
it,  were  invented,  what  the  grammarians  call  metrical  feet,  dactyles, 
spondees,  iambus,  &c.  By  these  measures  was  tried  the  accuracy  of 
composition  in  every  line,  and  whether  it  was  so  constructed  as  to 
complete  its  proper  melody.  It  was  requisite,  for  instance,  that  the 
hexameter  verse  should  have  the  quantity  of  its  syllables  so  disposed, 
that  it  could  be  scanned  or  measured  by  six  metrical  feet,  which 
might  be  either  dactyles  or  spondees  (as  the  musical  time  of  both 
these  is  the  same)  with  this  restriction  only,  that  the  fifth  foot  was 
regularly  to  be  a  dactyle,  and  the  last  a  spondee.* 


*  Some  writers  imagine,  that  the  feet  in  Latin  verse  were  intended  to  correspond 
to  bars  in  music,  and  to  form  musical  intervals  or  distinctions,  sensible  to  the  ear 
in  the  pronunciation  of  the  line.  Had  this  been  the  case,  every  kind  of  verse  must 
have  had  a  peculiar  order  of  feet  appropriated  to  it.  But  the  common  prosodies 
show  that  there  are  several  forms  of  Latin  verse  which  are  capable  of  being-  mea- 
sured indifferently,  by  a  series  of  feet  of  very  different  kinds.  For  instance,  what  is 
called  the  Asclepedaean  verse  (in  which  the  first  ode  of  Horace  is  written)  may  be 
scanned  either  by  a  Spondens,  two  Choriambus's,  and  a  Pyrrichius  ;  or  by  a  Spon- 
deus,  a  Dactylus  succeeded  by  a  Caesura,  and  two  Dactylus's.  The  common  Penta- 
meter, and  some  other  forms  of  verse,  admit  the  like  varieties  ;  and  yet  the  melody 
of  the  verse,  remains  alwavs  the  same,  though  it  be  scanned  by  different  feel.  This 
proves,  that  the  metrical  feet  were  not  sensible  in  the  pronunciation  of  the  line,  but 
were   intended   only  to  regulate  its   construction  •,  or    apmied  as  measures,  to  tr> 


cect.  xxxvin.]  VERSIFICATION.  429 

The  introduction  of  these  feet  into  English  verse,  would  be  alto- 
gether out  of  place;  for  the  genius  of  our  language  corresponds  not 
in  this  respect  to  Greek  or  Latin.  I  say  not,  that  we  have  no 
regard  to  quantity,  or  to  long  and  short,  in  pronouncing.  Many 
words  we  have,  especially  our  words  consisting  of  several  syllab  es. 
where  the  quantity,  or  the  long  and  short  syllables,  are  invariably 
fixed ;  but  great  numbers  we  have  also,  where  the  quantity  is  left  al- 
together loose.  This  is  the  case  with  a  great  part  of  our  words  con- 
sisting of  two  syllables,  and  with  almost  all  our  monosyllables. 
In  general,  the  difference  made  between  long  and  short  syllables,  in 
our  manner  of  pronouncing  them,is  so  very  inconsiderable,  and  so 
much  liberty  is  left  us  for  making  them  either  long  or  short  at  plea- 
sure, that  mere  quantity  is  of  very  little  effect  in  English  versification. 
The  only  perceptible  difference  among  our  syllables,  arises  from 
some  of  them  being  uttered  with  that  stronger  percussion  of  voice, 
which  we  call  accent.  This  accent  does  not  always  make  the  sylla- 
ble longer,  but  gives  it  more  force  of  sound  only ;  and  it  is  upon  a 
certain  order  and  succession  of  accented  and  unaccented  syllables, 
/nfinitely  more  than  upon  their  being  long  or  short,  that  the  melody 
of  our  verse  depends.  If  we  take  any  of  Mr.  Pope's  lines,  and  in 
reciting  them  alter  the  quantity  of  the  syllables,  as  far  as  our  quanti- 
ties are  sensible,  the  music  of  the  verse  will  not  be  much  injured: 
whereas,  if  we  do  not  accent  the  syllables  according  as  the  verse 
dictates,  its  melody  will  be  totally  destroyed.*  ■ 

Our  English  heroic  verse  is  of  what  maybe  called  an  iambic  struc- 
ture ;  that  is,  composed  of  a  succession,  nearly  alternate,  of  syllables, 
not  short  and  long,  but  unaccented  and  accented.  With  regard  to 
the  place  of  these  accents,  however,  some  liberty  is  admitted,  for  the 
sake  of  variety.  Verv  often,  though  not  always,  the  line  begins  with 
an  unaccented  syllable;  and  sometimes,  in  the  course  of  it,  two  un- 
accented syllables  follow  each  other.  But  in  general,  there  are 
either  five,  or  four,  accented  syllables  in  each  line.  The  number  of 
f  yllables  is  ten,  unless  where  an  Alexandrine  verse  is  occasionally  ad- 
mitted. In  verses  not  Alexandrine,  instances  occur  where  the  line 
appears  to  have  more  than  the  limited  number.  But  in  such  instan- 
ces, I  apprehend  it  will  be  found,  that  some  of  the  liquid  syllables  are 

whether  the  succession  of  long  and  short  syllables  was  such  as  suited  the  melod; 
of  tlie  verse;  and  as  feet  of  different  kinds  could  sometimes  be  applied  for  this 
purpose,  hence  it  happened,  that  some  forms  of  verse  were  capable  of  being  scan- 
ned in  different  ways.  For  measuring  the  hexameter  line,  no  other  feet  were 
found  so  proper  as  dactyles  and  spondees,  and  therefore  by  these  it  is  uniformlv 
scanned  But  no  ear  is  sensible  of  the  termination  of  each  foot,  in  reading  an  hex- 
ameter iine  From  a  misapprehension  of  this  matter,  I  apprehend  that  confusio 
has  sometimes  arisen  among  writers,  in  treating  of  the  prosody  both  of  Latin  and  of 
English  verse.  .  _,  .  .  ,  _  , 

*  See  this  well  illustrated  in  Lord  Monboddo's  Treatise  of  The  Origin  and  Progress  oj 
Lano-uase,  vol.  ii.  under  the  head  of  the  prosody  of  language.  He  shows  that  this  is 
not  only  the  constitution  of  our  own  verse,  but  that,  by  our  manner  of  reading  Latin 
terse  we  make  its  music  nearly  the  same.  For  we  certainly  do  not  pronounce  it  ac- 
cording to  the  ancient  quantities,  so  as  to  make  the  musical  time  of  one  long  syllable 
equal  to  two  short  ones ;  but  according  to  a  succession  of  accented  and  unaccented  sylla- 
bles, only  mixed  in  a  ratio  different  from  that  of  our  own  verse.  No  Roman  could  po* 
sibly  understand  our  pronunciation. 

3Q 


tSft  VERSIFICATION.  [lect.  xxxviti. 

so  slurred  in  pronouncing,  as  to  bring  the  verse,  with  respect  to  its 
effect  upon  the  ear,  within  the  usual  bounds. 

Another  essential  circumstance  in  the  constitution  of  our  verse,  is 
die  caesural  pause,  which  falls  towards  the  middle  of  each  line. 
Some  pause  of  this  kind,  dictated  by  the  melody,  is  found  in  the 
verse  of  most  nations.  It  is  found,  as  might  be  shown,  in  the  Latin 
hexameter.  In  the  French  heroic  verse  it  is  very  sensible.  That 
is  a  verse  of  twelve  syllables;  and  in  every  line,  just  after  the  sixth 
syllable,there  falls  regularly  and  indispensably  a  cassural  pause,  di- 
viding the  line  into  two  equal  hemisticks.  For  example,  in  the  first 
lines  of  Boileau's  Epistle  to  the  King: 

Jeune  h  vaillant  heros  |  dont  la  haute  sagesse 
N'est  point  le  fruit  tardif  |  d'une  lente  vieillesse, 
Qui  seul  sans  Ministre  |  a  l'example  des  Dieux, 
Soutient  tout  par  toi-nieme  |  &i  voit  tous  par  tes  yeux. 

In  this  train  all  their  verses  proceed  ;  the  one  half  of  the  line  always 
answering  to  the  other,  and  the  same  chime  returning  incessantly  on 
the  ear  without  intermission  or  change  ;  which  is  certainly  a  defect 
in  their  verse,  and  unfits  it  so  very  much  for  the  freedom  and  dignity 
of  heroic  poetry.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  a  distinguishing  advan- 
tage of  our  English  verse,  that  it  allows  the  pause  to  be  varied 
through  four  different  syllables  in  the  line.  The  pause  may  fall 
after  the  4th,  the  5th,  the  6th,  or  the  7th  syllable;  and  according  as 
the  pause  is  placed  after  one  or  other  of  these  syllables,  the  melody  of 
the  verse  is  much  changed,  its  air  and  cadence  are  diversified.  By 
this  means,  uncommon  richness  and  variety  are  added  to  English 
versification. 

When  the  pause  falls  earliest,  that  is,  after  the  4th  syllable,  the 
briskest  melody  is  thereby  formed,  and  the  most  spirited  air  given 
to  the  line.  In  the  following  lines  of  the  Rape  of  the  Lock,  Mr. 
Pope  has,  with  exquisite  propriety,  suited  the  construction  of  the 
verse  to  the  subject. 

On  her  white  breast  |  a  sparkling  cross  she  wore, 
Which  Jews  might  kiss  |  and  infidels  adore ; 
Her  lively  looks  |  a  sprightly  mind  disclose, 
Quick  as  her  eyes  |  and  as  unfix'd  as  those. 
Favours  to  none,  |  to  all  she  smiles  extends, 
Oft  she  rejects,  |  but  never  once  offends. 

When  the  pause  falls  after  the  5th  syllable,  which  divides  the  line 
into  two  equal  portions,  the  melody  is  sensibly  altered.  The  verse 
loses  that  brisk  and  sprightly  air,  which  it  had  with  the  former  pause, 
and  becomes  more  smooth,  gentle,  and  flowing. 

Eternal  sunshine  |  of  the  spotless  mind, 

Each  prayer  accepted  |  and  each  wish  resign'd. 

When  the  pause  proceeds  to  follow  the  6th  syllable,  the  tenour  o: 
the  music  becomes  solemn  and  grave.  The  verse  marches  now 
with  a  more  slow  and  measured  pace,  than  in  any  of  the  two  for 
mer  cases. 

The  wrath  of  Peleus'  son,  |  the  direful  spring 
Of  all  the  Grecian  woes,  |  0  goddess  sing  ! 


l*ct.  xxxviii.]  VERSIFICATION.  43] 

But  tne  grave,  solemn  cadence  becomes  still  more  sensible,  when 
the  pause  falls  after  the  7th  syllable,  which  is  the  nearest  place  to 
the  end  of  the  line  that  it  can  oorupy.  This  kind  of  verse  occurs 
the  seldomest,  but  has  a  happy  effect  in  diversifying  the  melody.  It 
produces  that  slow  Alexandrine  air  which  is  finely  suited  to  a  close; 
and  for  this  reason,  such  lines  almost  never  occur  together,  but  are 
Jsed  in  finishing  the  couplet. 

And  in  the  smooth  description  |  murmur  still, 
Longlov'd,  ador'd  ideas  !  j  all  adieu. 

I  have  taken  my  examples  from  verses  in  rhyme ;  because  in 
these,  our  versification  is  subjected  to  the  strictest  law.  As  blank 
verse  is  of  a  freer  kind,  and  naturally  is  read  with  less  cadence  or 
tone,  the  pauses,  in  it,  and  the  effect  of  them,  are  not  always  so  sen- 
sible to  the  ear.  It  is  constructed,  however,  entirely  upon  the  same 
principles  with  respect  to  the  place  of  the  pause.  There  are  some 
who,  in  order  to  exalt  the  variety  and  the  power  of  our  heroic  verse, 
have  maintained  that  it  admits  of  musical  pauses,  not  only  after 
those  four  syllables,  where  I  assigned  their  place,  but  after  any  one 
syllable  in  the  verse  indifferently,  where  the  sense  directs  it  to  be 
placed.  This,  in  my  opinion,  is  the  same  thing  as  to  maintain  that 
there  is  no  pause  at  all  belonging  to  the  natural  melody  of  the  verse; 
since,  according  to  this  notion,  the  pause  is  formed  entirely  by  the 
meaning,  not  by  the  music.  But  this  I  apprehend  to  be  contrary 
both  to  the  nature  of  versification,  and  the  experience  of  every 
^ood  ear.*  Those  certainly  are  the  happiest  lines,  wherein  the 
pause,  prompted  by  the  melody,  coincides  in  some  degree  with  that 
of  the  sense,  or  at  least  does  not  tend  to  spoil  or  interrupt  the  mean- 
ing. Wherever  any  opposition  between  the  music  and  the  sense 
chances  to  take  place,  I  observed  before,  in  treating  of  pronunciation 
or  delivery,  that  the  proper  method  of  reading  these  lines,  is  to  read 
them  according  as  the  sense  dictates,  neglecting  or  slurring  the  cae- 
sural  pause  ;  which  renders  the  line  less  graceful  indeed,  but,  how- 
ever, does  not  entirely  destroy  its  sound. 

Our  blank  verse  possesses  great  advantages,  and  is  indeed  a  noble, 
bold,  and  disencumbered  species  of  versification.  The  principal 
defect  in  rhyme,  is  the  full  close  which  it  forces  upon  the  ear,  at 
the  end  of  every  couplet.  Blank  verse  is  freed  from  this  ;  and  al- 
lows the  lines  to  run  into  each  other  with  as  great  liberty  as  the  La- 
tin hexameter  permits,  perhaps  with  greater.  Hence  it  is  particu- 
larly suited  to  subjects  of  dignity  and  force,  which  demand  more 

*  In  the  Italian  heroic  verse,  employed  by  Tasso  in  his  Gierusalemme,  and 
Ariosto  in  his  Orlando,  the  pauses  are  of  the  same  varied  nature  with  those  which 
I  have  shown  to  belong  to  English  versification,  and  fall  after  the  same  four  sylla- 
bles in  the  line.  Marmontel,  in  his  Poetique  Francoise,  vol.  i.  p.  269,  takes  no 
tice,  that  the  construction  of  verse  is  common  to  the  Italians  and  the  English ;  and 
defends  the  uniformity  of  the  French  cjesural  pause  upon  this  ground,  that  the  al- 
ternation of  masculine  and  feminine  rhymes  furnishes  sufficient  variety  to  the  French 
poetry;  whereas  the  change  of  movement  occasioned  by  the  four  different  pauses  in 
English  and  Italian  verse,  produces,  according  to  him,  too  great  diversity.  On  the  head 
of  pauses  in  English  versification,  see  the  Elements  of  Criticism,  chap  18,  sect.  4. 


432  VERSIFICATION.  [lect.  xxxvm 

free  and  manly  numbers  than  rhyme.  The  constraint  and  strict  re- 
gularity of  rhyme,  are  unfavourable  to  the  sublime,  or  to  the  highly 
pathetic  strain.  An  epic  poem,  or  a  tragedy,  would  be  fettered  and 
degraded  by  it.  It  is  best  adapted  to  compositions  of  a  temperate 
strain,  where  no  particular  vehemence  is  required  in  the  sentiments, 
nor  great  sublimity  in  the  style  ;  such  as  pastorals,  elegies,  epistles, 
satires,  &c.  To  these,  it  communicates  that  degree  of  elevation 
which  is  proper  for  them ;  and  without  any  other  assistance  suffi- 
ciently distinguishes  the  style  from  prose.  He  who  should  write 
such  poems  in  blank  verse,  would  render  his  work  harsh  and  un- 
pleasing.  In  order  to  support  a  poetical  style,  he  would  be  obliged 
to  affect  a  pomp  of  language  unsuitable  to  the  subject. 

Though  I  join  in  opinion  with  those,  who  think  that  rhyme  finds 
its  proper  place  in  the  middle,  but  not  in  the  higher  regions  of  poe- 
try, I  can  by  no  means  join  in  the  invectives  which  some  have  pour- 
ed out  against  it,  as  if  it  were  a  mere  barbarous  jingling  of  sounds, 
fit  only  for  children,  and  owing  to  nothing  but  the  corruption  of  taste 
in  the  monkish  ages.  Rhyme  might  indeed  be  barbarous  in  Latin 
or  Greek  verse,  because  these  languages,  by  the  sonorousness  of  their 
words,  by  their  liberty  of  transposition  and  inversion,  by  their  fixed 
quantities  and  musical  pronunciation,  could  carry  on  the  melody  of 
verse  without  its  aid.  But  it  does  not  follow,  that  therefore  it  must 
be  barbarous  in  the  English  language,  which  is  destitute  of  these  ad- 
vantages. Every  language  has  powers  and  graces,  and  music  pecu- 
liar to  itself;  and  what  is  becoming  in  one,  would  be  ridiculous  in 
another.  Rhyme  was  barbarous  in  Latin;  and  an  attempt  to  con- 
struct English  verses,  after  the  form  of  hexameters,  and  pentameters, 
and  sapphics,  is  as  barbarous  among  us.  It  is  not  true,  that  rhyme 
is  merely  a  monkish  invention  On  the  contrary,  it  has  obtained 
under  different  forms,  in  the  versification  of  most  known  nations.  It 
is  found  in  the  ancient  poetry  of  the  northern  nations  of  Europe  ;  it 
is  said  to  be  found  among  the  Arabs,  the  Persians,  the  Indians,  and 
the  Americans.  This  shows  that  there  is  something  in  the  return 
of  similar  sounds,  which  is  grateful  to  the  ears  of  most  part  of  man 
kind.  And  if  any  one,  after  reading  Mr.  Pope's  Rape  of  the  Lock, 
or  Eloisa  to  Abelard,  shall  not  admit  our  rhyme,  with  all  its  varieties 
of  pauses,  to  carry  both  elegance  and  sweetness  of  sound,  his  ear 
must  be  pronounced  to  be  of  a  very  peculiar  kind. 

The  present  form  of  our  English  heroic  rhyme  in  couplets,  is  a 
modern  species  of  versification.  The  measure  generally  used  in  the 
days  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  King  James,  and  King  Charles  I.  was  the 
stanza  of  eight  lines,  such  as  Spenser  employs,  borrowed  from  the 
Italian  ;  a  measure  very  constrained  and  artificial.  Waller  was  the 
first  who  brought  couplets  into  vogue ;  and  Dryden  afterwards  estab- 
lished the  usage.  Waller  first  smoothed  our  verse;  Dryden  perfected 
it.  Mr.  Pope's  versification  has  a  peculiar  character.  It  is  flow- 
ing and  smootn  in  the  highest  degree;  far  more  laboured  and  cor- 
rect than  that  of  any  who  went  before  him.  He  introduced  one 
considerable  change  into  verse,  by  totally  throwing  aside  the  trip- 
lets, or  three  lines  rhyming  together,  in  which  Mr.  Dryden  abound 


LECT.  XXXVIII. J 


QUESTIONS. 


433 


ed.  Dryden's  versification,  however,  has  ve?y  great  merit ;  and,  like 
ill  his  productions,  has  much  spirit,  mixed  with  carelessness.  If  not 
so  smooth  and  correct  as  Pope's,  it  is,  however,  more  varied  and  easy. 
He  subjects  himself  less  to  the  rule  of  closing  the  sense  with  the  coup- 
et ;  and  frequently  takes  the  liberty  of  making  his  couplets  run  into 
me  another,  with  somewhat  of  the  freedom  of  blank  verse. 


QUESTIONS. 


On  what  has  our  author  now  finish- 
ed his  observations ;  and  what  remains? 
As  what  does  our  author  design  this 
lecture ;  and  in  what  manner  does 
he  propose  to  treat  it?  What  is  our 
first  inquiry?  Of  the  answer  to  this 
question,  what  is  observed  ?  In  what 
have  some  made  its  essence  to  consist, 
and  by  what  authority  do  they  support 
their  opinion  ?  How  does  it  appear  that 
this  is  too  limited  a  definition  ?  Why  is 
it  too  loose  to  make  the  characteristics 
of  poetry  lie  in  imitation  ?  What  is  the 
most  just  and  comprehensive  definition 
which  can  be  given  of  poetry  ?  How  is 
this  definition  fully  illustrated  ?  What 
has  our  author  added  to  this  definition ; 
and  why  ?  How  nearly  do  verse  and 
prose  approach  each  other ;  and  what 
remarks  follow  ?  From  what  will  the 
truth  and  justness  of  the  definition 
given,  appear?  To  whom  have  the 
Greeks  ascribed  the  origin  of  poetry? 
Of  such  persons  as  these,  what  is  re- 
marked ?  To  imagine  what,  is  a  great 
error ;  and  why  ?  In  order  to  explore 
the  rise  of  poetry,  to  what  must  we 
have  recourse  ?  What  has  been  often 
said  ?  What  period  of  society  never 
existed  ?  What  illustration,  then,  of  the 
paradox,  that  poetry  is  older  than  prose, 
follows  ?  Where,  only,  have  we  had  an 
opportunity  of  being  made  acquainted 
with  men  in  their  savage  state  ?  Of 
them,  what  do  we  learn  from  concur- 
ring accounts  of  travellers  ?  Here,  then, 
in  what  do  we  see  the  beginnings  of 
poetic  composition  ?  What  two  parti- 
culars would  early  distinguish  this 
language  of  song  ?  How  is  this  illus- 
trated ?  What  influence  do  strong  emo- 
tions exert  over  the  passions ;  and  what 
do  we,  consequently,  do?  Hence,  what 
arises  ?  What  is  man  by  nature ;  and 
how  is  this  remark  illustrated  ?  What, 
therefore,  follows  ?  As  the  first  poets 
sung  their  own  verses,  of  what  was  this 
the  beginning  ?    What  fell  in  with  the 


music  of  the  song  ?  What  was  the  ear- 
ly character  of  these  members;  but 
what  followed  ?  From  what  has  been 
said,  what  appears  ?  From  what  does 
it  appear  that  they  knew  no  other  than 
these  ?  What,  therefore,  follows  ?  What 
farther  reason  is  there  why  such  com- 
positions only,  could  be  transmitted  to 
posterity  ?  How  is  this  illustrated  ? 
What  bear  testimony  to  these  facts  ; 
and  of  this  remark,  what  illustrations 
follow  ?  How  does  it  appear,  that,  in 
the  same  manner,  among  all  other  na- 
tions, poets  and  songs  are  the  first  ob- 
jects that  make  their  appearance? 
From  this  deduction,  what  follows; 
and  why?  What  occur  among  all  na- 
tions; and  what  are  the  general  dis- 
tinguishing characters  of  all  the  most 
ancient  original  poetry  ?  Of  that  strong 
hyperbolical  manner,  which  we  have 
long  been  accustomed  to  call  the  orien- 
tal manner  of  poetry,  what  is  obser- 
ved? When  do  mankind  most  resemble 
each  other  ?  What  is  the  effect  of  its 
subsequent  revolutions  ?  What  influ- 
ence has  diversity  of  climate,  and 
manners  of  living,  on  the  first  poetry  of 
nations?  Of  this  remark,  what  illus- 
trations are  given?  Repeat  the  passage 
from  Lucan.  From  what  does  it  ap- 
pear that  the  early  poetry  of  the  Gre- 
cian nations  assumed  a  philosophical 
cast?  Who  have  always  bee.!  the 
greatest  poets  of  the  east ;  and  among 
them,  of  what  was  poetry  the  vehicle  ? 
Of  the  ancient  Arabs,  what  are  we  in- 
formed ?  Of  what  two  sorts  were  they? 
Of  the  former,  what  is  observed  ?  Who 
seem  to  have  been  the  first  who  intro- 
duced a  more  regular  structure,  and 
closer  connexion  of  parts,  into  their 
poetical  writings  ?  What  was  the  state 
of  poetry  during  its  infancy  ?  In  the 
progress  of  society  and  arts,  what  did 
they  begin  to  assume  ?  But  in  the  first 
rude  state  of  poetical  effusions,  what  may 
easily  be  discerned?  How  is  this  re- 


433  a 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  XXXVIII 


mark  illustrated  ?  Of  all  of  these  kinds 
of  poetry,  however,  what  is  observed  ? 
What,  also,  was  then  blended  in  one 
mass  ?  How  is  this  illustrated  ?  In 
what,  period  of  society  was  this  the 
case?  When  was  this  order  changed? 
What  effect  was  produced  by  the  in 
vention  of  the  art  of  writing  ?  What 
effect  did  this  produce  on  the  histo- 
rian, the  philosopher,  and  the  orator? 
What  did  poetry  now  become?  What 
was  the  effect  of  these  separations? 
From  what,  however,  does  it  appear 
that  poetry,  in  its  ancient,  original  con- 
dition, was  perhaps  more  vigorous  than 
it  is  in  its  modern  state?  What,  there- 
fore, is  not  to  be  wondered  at  ?  When 
did  authors  begin  to  affect  what  they 
did  not  feel ;  and  what  was  the  conse- 
quence? Of  the  separation  of  music 
from  poetry,  what  is  remarked  ?  How 
is  this  remark  illustrated  ?  Of  the  mu- 
sic, and  of  the  musical  instruments  of 
that  early  period,  what  is  observed; 
and  what  follows?  What  is  certain? 
When  did  music  lose  all  its  ancient 
power  of  inflaming  the  hearers  with 
strong  emotions ;  and  into  what  did  it 
sink  ?  What  does  poetry,  in  all  nations, 
still  preserve?  Whence  ar^es  that 
great  characteristic  of  poetry  which  we 
now  call  verse  ?  WThy  does  our  author 
confine  himself  to  a  few  observations 
upon  English  versification  ?  Upon 
what  did  nations,  whose  language  and 
pronunciation  were  of  a  musical  kind, 
rest  their  versification  ?  Upon  what  did 
ethers,  who  did  not  make  the  quantities 
of  their  syllables  so  distinctl}'  perceived 
in  pronouncing  them,  rest  them  ?  The 
former  was  the  case  with  whom,  and 
with  whom  is  the  latter?  Among  the 
Greeks  and  Romans,  of  every  syllable, 
what  is  remarked  ?  Upon  this  principle, 
to  wh"t  extent  was  the  number  of  syl- 
lables contained  in  their  hexameter 
verse,  allowed  to  vary?  In  order  to 
ascertain  the  regular  time  of  every 
verse,  what  were  invented  ?  By  these 
measures,  what  were  tried  ?  How  is 
this  illustrated?  WThy  would  the  intro- 
duction of  these  feet  into  English  verse, 
be  entirely  out  of  place  ?  What  illus- 
tration of  this  remark  follows?  With 
what  words  is  this  the  case  ?  Of  the  dif- 
ference, in  general,  made  between  long 
and  short  syllables,  in  our  manner  of 
pronouncing  them,  what  is  observed  ? 
From  what  does  the  only  perceptible  I 
difference,  among  our  syllables,  arise  ? ' 


What  is  remarned  of  this  accent?  How 
is  this  illustrated  ?  Of  what  structure  is 
our  English  heroic  verse  ?  With  regard 
to  the  place  of  these  accents,  what  re- 
marks are  made  ?  What  is  another  es- 
sential circumstance  in  the  construc- 
tion of  our  verse  ?  In  what  other  verse 
is  it  found  ?  Of  its  use  in  French,  what 
is  observed ;  and  by  what  example  is 
this  illustrated?  On  French  verses, 
what  is  farther  remarked  ?  On  the 
other  hand,  what  is  a  distinguishing 
advantage  of  our  English  verse  ?  After 
what  syllables  may  the  pause  fall,  and 
what  remark  follows  ?  By  this  means, 
what  are  added  to  English  versifica- 
tion ?_  What  effect  is  produced,  when 
the  pause  falls  earliest,  or  after  the 
fourth  syllable  ?  By  what  example  is 
this  illustrated  ?  When  the  pause  falls 
after  the  fifth  syllable,  what  is  its  ef- 
fect, and  what  does  the  verse  then 
lose?  Repeat  the  example.  WThen 
the  pause  follows  the  sixth  syllable, 
what  air  does  the  tenour  of  the  music 
assume  ?  By  what  example  is  this  il- 
lustrated ?  But  when  does  the  grave, 
solemn  cadence,  become  still  more  sen- 
sible ?  Of  this  kind  of  verse,  what  is 
observed  ;  and  what  example  is  given  ? 
Why  has  our  author  taken  his  exam- 
ples from  verses  in  rhyme  ?  Of  blank 
verse,  what  is  here  observed?  With 
regard  to  our  verse,  what  have  some 
maintained  5  This,  in  the  opinion  of 
our  author,  is  the  same  thing  as  what : 
and  why  ?  To  what  is  this  apprehend- 
ed to  be  contrary  ;  and  for  what  rea- 
son? How  are  blank  verse  and  rhyme 
contrasted?  With  what  opinion  does 
our  author  coincide,  yet,  in  what  in- 
vectives can  he  not  join  ?  Why  might 
rhyme  be  barbarous  in  Latin  or  Greek 
verse  ?  But  what  does  not,  therefore, 
follow  ?  How  are  these  remarks  illus- 
trated ?  How  does  it  appear  to  be  not 
true,  that  rhyme  is  merely  a  monkish 
invention  ?  What  do  these  instances 
show  ;  and  what  remark  follows  ?  Of 
the  present  form  of  our  English  ?  hyme, 
in  couplets,  what  is  observed  ?  What 
measure  was  generally  used  in  the 
days  of  Queen  Elizabeth ;  and  what  is 
observed  of  it  ?  Who  first  brought  coup- 
lets into  vogue ;  and  who  established 
the  usage?  Of  them,  what  ip  farther 
remarked  ?  What  is  the  character  of 
Mr.  Pope's  versification  ?  How  doea 
Dryden  compare  with  him  ? 


LECT.  XXXIX.] 


QUESTIONS. 


433  0 


ANALYSIS 


1.  The  definition  of  poetry. 

2.  Its  origin  and  antiquity. 

3.  Its  ancient  characteristics. 

4.  The  different  kinds,  not  distinguished. 

5.  The  influence  of  the  invention  of  the  art 

of  writing'. 

6.  The  separation  of  music  from  verse. 
.  The  nature  of  verse. 


.  English  versification. 

a.  The  effects  of  the  cssural  pause, 

when  differently  placed, 
(a.)  After  the  fourth  syllable. 
(b.)  After  the  fifth  syllable, 
(c.)  After  the  sixth  syllable, 
(d.)  After  the  seventh  syllable. 

b.  The  character  of  our  blank  ver3e._ 
(a.)  Blank    verse    contrasted    with 

rhyme. 


LECTURE    XXXIX. 


PASTORAL  POETRY.— LYRIC  POETRY. 

In  the  last  lecture,  I  gave  an  account  of  the  rise  and  progress  of 
poetry,  and  made  some  observations  on  the  nature  of  English  versi- 
fication. I  now  proceed  to  treat  of  the  chief  kinds  of  poetical  com- 
position, and  of  the  critical  rules  that  relate  to  them.  I  shall  follow 
that  order  which  is  most  simple  and  natural ;  beginning  with  the 
lesser  forms  of  poetry,  and  ascending  from  them  to  the  epic  and  dra- 
matic, as  the  most  dignified.  This  lecture  shall  be  employed  on 
pastoral  and  lyric  poetry.  .   . 

Though  I  begin  with  the  consideration  of  pastoral  poetry,  it  is  not 
because!  consider  it  as  one  of  the  earliest  forms  of  poetical  com- 
position. On  the  contrary,  I  am  of  opinion  that  it  was  not  cultivated 
as  a  distinct  species,  or  subject  of  writing,  until  society  had  advanced 
in  refinement.  Most  authors  have,  indeed,  indulged  the  fancy,  that 
because  the  life  which  mankind  at  first  led  was  rural,  therefore  their 
first  poetry  was  pastoral,  or  employed  in  the  celebration  of  rural 
scenes  and  objects.  I  make  no  doubt,  that  it  would  borrow  many  ot 
its  images  and  allusions  from  those  natural  objects  with  which  men 
were  best  acquainted;  but  I  am  persuaded,  that  the  calm  and 
tranquil  scenes  of  rural  felicity  were  not,  by  any  means,  the  first  ob- 
jects which  inspired  that  strain  of  composition,  which  we  now  call 
poetry.  It  was  inspired,  in  the  first  periods  of  every  nation,  by 
events  and  objects  which  roused  men's  passions  ;  or,  at  least,  awa- 
kened their  wonder  and  admiration.  The  actions  of  their  gods  and 
heroes,  their  own  exploits  in  war,  the  successes  or  misfortunes  of 
their  countrymen  and  friends,  furnished  the  first  themes  to  the  bards 
of  every  country.  What  was  of  a  pastoral  kind  in  their  composi- 
ions,  was  incidental  only.  They  did  not  think  of  choosing  for  their 
theme  the  tranquillity  and  the  pleasures  of  the  country,  as  long  as 
these  were  daily  and  familiar  objects  to  them.  It  was  not  till  men 
had  begun  to  be  assembled  in  great  cities,  after  the  distinctions  of 
rank  and  station  were  formed,  and  the  bustle  of  courts  and  large  so- 
cieties was  known,  that  pastoral  poetry  assumed  its  present  form. 
Men  then  began  to  look  back  upon  the  more  simple  and  innocent  hie 
whicn  their  forefathers  led,  or  which,  at  least,  they  fancied  them  to 
have  led  :  thev  ,ooked  back  upon  it  with  pleasure,  and  in  those  rura) 


134  PASTORAL  POETRY.  [lkct.xxxtx. 

scenes,  and  pastoral  occupations,  imagining  a  degree  of  felicity  to 
take  place,  superior  to  what  they  now  enjoyed,  conceived  the  idea 
of  celebrating  it  in  poetry.  It  was  in  the  court  of  King  Ptolemy,  that 
Theocritus  wrote  the  first  pastorals  with  which  we  are  acquainted ; 
and,  in  the  court  of  Augustus,  he  was  imitated  by  Virgil. 

But  whatever  may  have  been  the  origin  of  pastoral  poetry,  it  is 
undoubtedly  a  natural  and  very  agreeable  form  of  poetical  compo- 
sition. It  recalls  to  our  imagination  those  gay  scenes,  and  pleasing 
views  of  nature,  which  commonly  are  the  delight  of  our  childhood 
and  youth ;  and  to  which,  in  more  advanced  years,  the  greatest  part 
of  men  recur  with  pleasure.  It  exhibits  to  us  a  life,  with  which  we 
are  accustomed  to  associate  the  ideas  of  peace,  of  leisure,  and  of  in- 
nocence ;  and,  therefore,  we  readily  set  open  our  heart  to  such  repre- 
sentations as  promise  to  banish  from  our  thoughts  the  cares  of  the 
world ;  and  to  transport  us  into  calm  elysian  regions.  At  the  same 
time,  no  subject  seems  to  be  more  favourable  to  poetry.  Amidst 
rural  objects,  nature  presents,on  all  hands,  the  finest  field  for  descrip- 
tion ;  and  nothing  appears  to  flow  more  of  its  own  accord,  into  poeti- 
cal numbers,  than  rivers  and  mountains,  meadows  and  hills,  flocks 
and  trees,  and  shepherds  void  of  care.  Hence,  this  species  of  poetry  has, 
at  all  times,  allured  many  readers,  and  excited  many  writers.  But, 
notwithstanding  the  advantages  it  possesses,  it  will  appear  from  what 
I  have  farther  to  observe  upon  it,  that  there  is  hardly  any  species  of 
poetry  which  is  more  difficult  to  be  carried  to  perfection,  or  in  which 
fewer  writers  have  excelled. 

Pastoral  life  may  be  considered  in  three  different  views :  either 
such  as  it  now  actually  is;  when  the  state  of  shepherds  is  reduced 
to  be  a  mean,  servile,  and  laborious  state ;  when  their  employments 
are  become  disagreeable,  and  their  ideas  gross  and  low ;  or  such  a? 
we  may  suppose  it  once  to  have  been,  in  the  more  early  and  simple 
ages,  when  it  was  a  life  of  ease  and  abundance,  when  the  wealth  of 
men  consisted  chiefly  in  flocks  and  herds,  and  the  shepherd,  though 
unrefined  in  his  manners,  was  respectable  in  his  state ;  or  lastly,  such 
as  it  never  was,  and  never  can  in  reality  be,  when,  to  the  ease,  inno- 
cence, and  simplicity  of  the  early  ages,  we  attempt  to  add  the  po- 
lished taste  and  cultivated  manners  of  modern  times.  Of  these  three 
states,  the  first  is  too  gross  and  mean,  the  last  too  refined  and  un- 
natural, to  be  made  the  ground-work  of  pastoral  poetry.  Either 
of  these  extremes  is  a  rock  upon  which  the  poet  will  split,  if  he  ap- 
proach too  near  it.  We  shall  be  disgusted  if  he  gives  us  too  much 
of  the  servile  employments,  and  low  ideas  of  actual  peasants,  as  Theo- 
critus is  censured  for  having  sometimes  done:  and  if,  like  some  of 
the  French  and  Italian  writers  of  pastorals,  he  makes  his  shepherds 
discourse  as  if  they  were  courtiers  and  scholars,  he  then  retains  the 
name  only,  but  wants  the  spirit  of  pastoral  poetry. 

He  must,  therefore,  keep  in  the  middle  station  between  these. 
He  must  form  to  himself  the  idea  of  a  rural  state,  such  as  in  cer- 
tain periods  of  society  may  have  actually  taken  place,  where  there 
was  ease,  equality,  and  innocence;  where  shepherds  were  gay  and 
•greeable,  without  being  learned  or  refined;  and  plain  and  artless 


lect.  xxxix.]  PASTORAL  POETRY.  435 

without  being  gross  and  wretched.  The  great  charm  of  pastoral  poe- 
try arises,  from  the  view  which  itexhibits  of  the  tranquillity  and  hap- 
piness of  a  rural  life.  This  pleasing  illusion,  therefore,  the  poet 
must  carefully  maintain.  He  must  display  to  us  all  that  is  agree* 
able  in  that  state,  but  hide  whatever  is  displeasing.*  Let  him 
paint  its  simplicity  and  innocence  to  the  full ;  but  cover  its  rude- 
ness and  misery.  Distresses,  indeed,  and  anxieties  he  may  attri- 
bute tc  it ;  for  it  would  be  perfectly  unnatural  to  suppose  any  con- 
dition of  human  life  to  be  without  them ;  but  they  must  be  of  such 
a  nature,  as  not  to  shock  the  fancy  with  any  thing  peculiarly  dis- 
gusting in  the  pastoral  life.  The  shepherd  may  well  be  afflicted 
for  the  displeasure  of  his  mistress,  or  for  the  loss  of  a  favourite 
lamb.  It  is  a  sufficient  recommendation  of  any  state,  to  have  only 
sucn  evils  as  these  to  deplore.  In  short,  it  is  the  pastoral  life  some- 
what embellished  and  beautified,  at  least,  seen  on  its  fairest  side 
only,  that  the  poet  ought  to  present  to  us.  But  let  him  take  care 
that,  in  embellishing  nature,  he  do  not  altogether  disguise  her  ; 
or  pretend  to  join  with  rural  simplicity  and  happiness,  such  im- 
provements as  are  unnatural  and  foreign  to  it.  If  it  be  not  exactly 
real  life  which  he  presents  to  us,  it  must,  however,  be  somewhat 
that  resembles  it.  This,  in  my  opinion,  is  the  general  idea  of  pas- 
toral poetry.  But,  in  order  to  examine  it  more  particularly,  let 
us  consider,  first,  the  scenery ;  next,  the  characters;  and,  lastly, 
the  subjects  and  actions,  which  this  sort  of  composition  should  ex- 
hibit. 

As  to  the  scene,  it  is  clear,  that  it  must  always  be  laid  in  the 
country,  and  much  of  the  poet's  merit  depends  on  describing  it 
beautifully.  Virgil  is,  in  this  respect,  excelled  by  Theocritus,  whose 
descriptions  of  natural  beauties  are  richer    and  more  picturesque 

*  In  the  following  beautiful  lines  of  the  first  Eclogue,  Virgil  has,  in  the  true 
spirit  of  a  pastoral  poet,  brought  together  as  agreeable  an  assemblage  of  images  of  ru? 
ral  pleasure  as  can  any  where  be  found  : 

Fortunate  senex !  hlc  inter  flumina  nota, 
Et  fontes  sacros,  frigus  captabis  opacum. 
Hinc  tibi,  quae  semper  vicino  ab  limite  sepes, 
HybLeis  *pibus,  florem  depasta  salicti, 
Sa?pele»<  somnum  suadebit  inire  susurro. 
Hinc  a!ta  fcub  rupe,  canet  frondator  ad  auras ; 
Nee  (amen  interna  raucEP,  tua  cura,  palumbes, 
Nee  gemere  agria  cessabit  turtur  ab  ulmo. 

Happy  old  man !  here  mid  th'  accustom'd  streams 
And  sac-ed  springs,  you'll  shun  the  scorching  beams ; 
While  from  yon  willow  fence,  thy  pasture's  bound, 
The  bees  that  suck  their  flowery  stores  around, 
Shall  sweetly  mingle,  with  the  whisp'ring  boughs, 
Their  lulling  murmurs,  and  invite  repose. 
While  from  steep  rocks  the  pruner's  song  is  heard ; 
Nor  the  soft  cooing  dove,  thy  fav'rite  bird, 
Meanwhile  shall  cease  to  breathe  her  uniting  strain, 
Nir  turtles  from  the  aerial  elms  to  plain,  Wartoh. 

3R 


43b  PASTORAL  POETRY.  [lect.  xxxw 

than  those  of  the  other.*  In  every  pastoral,  a  scene,  or  rural 
prospect,  should  be  distinctly  drawn,  and  set  before  us.  It  is  not 
enough,  that  we  have  those  unmeaning  groups  of  violets  and  roses, 
of  birds,  and  brooks,  and  breezes,  which  our  common  pastoral- 
mongers  throw  together,  and  which  are  perpetually  recurring  upon 
us  without  variation.  A  good  poet  ought  to  give  us  such  a  land- 
scape, as  a  painter  could  copy  after.  His  objects  must  be  particu- 
larized ;  the  stream,  the  rock,  or  the  tree,  must  each  of  them 
stand  forth,  so  as  to  make  a  figure  in  the  imagination,  and  to  give 
,is  a  pleasing  conception  of  the  place  where  we  are.  A  single  ob- 
ject happily  introduced,  will  sometimes  distinguish  and  charac- 
terize a  whole  scene ;  such  as  the  antique  rustic  sepulchre,  a  very 
beautiful  object  in  a  landscape,  which  Virgil  has  set  before  us,  and 
which  he  has  taken  from  Theocritus. 

Hinc  adeo  media  est  nobis  via  ;  jamque  sepulchrum 

Incipit  apparere  Bianoris:  hie  ubi  densas 

Agricolae  stringunt  frondes.  Ecl.  IX.i 

*  What  rural  scenery,  for  instance,  can  be  painted  in  more  lively  colours,  than  th« 
following  description  exhibits  ? 


-VI  Tl  fcaOJIar/C 


"Elf  ti  norfJutTotirl  ytyaBiitc  ohafkivi. 
Uohxa.i  J*  a /up  iv  V7rt^t  xati  xp*TC(  fwiorro 
"Alytipot  7rTtxini  W  to  J~  tyyvBtt  itphi  uof»{ 

liVuqiv   »£  ItTgOtO  X*T«)26|U»W  XtXot'glfoVl. 

tot  /•  woTl  a-KiifaTlf  ipcfstfjtvia-iY  aiha^iccvtt 
Trrrtyic  \a.\a.ytZvTK  ^Xoy  7r'vcy'  *  f  •*•*■}•> 
T»x63"i»  i»  irvxnig-i  /Htbh  tpv^vrxn  ix.xvbut. 
'hufoi  Kopvftl  xtti  a*av6l'«r«,  ferTtn  T^vyiiy 
Uaravro  £«8tti  itrigt  <cijaicac  i(J"$\  u'tKlva-ai, 
IT*»t'  Svttl  S-ffJUC  fJ.u\*  ir/oroc,  uv$\  ef'  o«r»gi)C. 
*0%tai  (ah  w«t{  GrGeiri,  wag*  irMvgyai  it  ulxa. 

Lct~\.t)MS   luiJ.IV   tXI/X<WWo'    TCI  i'  txi^VlTO 

*Ofjrii.xK  @£*&vXei<ri  x.a.rnl&pibov'rtt  igaer/i. 

Theocrit.  Idyl.  vii.  182. 

on  soft  beds  recline 

Of  lentisk,  and  young  branches  of  the  vine ; 

Poplars  and  elms  above  their  foliage  spread, 

Lent  a  cool  shade,  and  wav'd  the  breezy  head; 

Below,  a  stream,  from  the  nymph's  sacred  cave, 

In  free  meanders  led  its  murm'ring  wave. 

In  the  warm  sunbeams,  verdant  shades  among, 

Shrill  grasshoppers  renew  "d  their  plaintive  song; 

At  distance  far,  conceal'd  in  shades,  alone, 

Sweet  Philomela  pour'd  her  tuneful  moan ; 

The  lark,  the  goldfinch,  warbled  lays  of  love, 

And  sweetly  pensive  coo'd  the  turtle  dove  ; 

While  honey  bees,  forever  on  the  wing, 

Humm'd  round  the  flowers,  or  sipt  the  silver  spring; 

The  rich,  ripe  season,  gratified  the  sense 

With  summer's  sweets,  and  autumn's  redolence. 

Apples  and  peavs  lay  strew'd  in  heaps  around, 

And  the  plum's  loaded  branches  kiss'd  the  ground.  Fawto. 

To  our  mid  journey  are  we  come, 
I  see  the  top  of  old  Biancr's  tomb  ; 
Here,  Maris,  where  the  swains  thick  branches  prune, 
And  strew  their  leaves,  our  voices  let  us  tune.  WabtcIT. 


lect.  xxxix.]  PASTORAL  POETRY.  437 

Not  only  in  professed  descriptions  of  the  acenery,  but  in  the  frequent 
allusions  to  natural  objects,  which  occur,  of  course,  in  pastorals,  the 
poet  must,  above  all  things,  study  variety.  He  must  diversify  his 
face  of  nature,  by  presenting  to  us  new  images;  or  otherwise,  he 
will  soon  become  insipid  with  those  known  topics  of  description, 
which  were  original,  it  is  true,  in  the  first  poets,  who  copied  them 
from  nature,  but  which  are  now  worn  thread-bare  by  incessant  imi- 
tation. It  is  also  incumbent  on  him,  to  suit  the  scenery  to  the  s.i in- 
ject of  the  pastoral ;  and,  according  as  it  is  of  a  gay  or  a  melancholy- 
kind,  to  exhibit  nature  under  such  forms  as  may  correspond  with 
the  emotions  or  sentiments  which  he  describes.  Thus  Virgil,  in  his 
second  Eclogue,  which  contains  the  lamentation  of  a  desparing  lover, 
gives,  with  propriety,  a  gloomy  appearance  to  the  scene : 

Tan'ilm  inter  densas,  umbrosa  cacumina,  fagos 
Assidu&  veniebat ;  ibi  haec  incondita  solus 
Montibus  &sylvis  studio  jactabat  inani.* 

With  regard  to  the  characters,  or  persons,  which  are  proper  to  be 
introduced  into  pastorals,  it  is  not  enough  that  they  be  persons  resid- 
ing in  the  country.  The  adventures,  or  the  discourses  of  courtiers, 
or  citizens,  in  the  country,  are  not  what  we  look  for  in  such  writings : 
we  expect  to  be  entertained  by  shepherds,  or  persons  wholly  en- 
gaged in  rural  occupations;  whose  innocence  and  freedom  from  the 
cares  of  the  world  may,  in  our  imagination,  form  an  agreeable  con- 
trast with  the  manners  and  characters  of  those  who  are  engaged  in 
the  bustle  of  life. 

One  of  the  principal  difficulties  which  here  occurs  has  been  al- 
ready hinted  ;  that  of  keeping  the  exact  medium  between  too  much 
rusticity  on  the  one  hand,  and  too  much  refinement  on  the  other. 
The  shepherd,  assuredly,  must  be  plain  and  unaffected  in  his  manner 
of  thinking,  on  all  subjects.  An  amiable  simplicity  must  be  the 
ground-work  of  his  character.  At  the  same  time,  there  is  no  ne- 
cessity for  his  being  dull  and  insipid.  He  may  have  good  sense  and 
reflection ;  he  may  have  sprightliness  and  vivacity ;  he  may  have 
very  tender  and  delicate  feelings;  since  these  are,  more  or  less,  the 
portion  of  men  in  all  ranks  of  life;  and  since,  undoubtedly,  there 
was  much  genius  in  the  world,  before  there  were  learning  or  arts  to 
refine  it.  But  then  he  must  not  subtilize;  he  must  not  deal  in  ge- 
neral reflections  and  abstract  reasoning;  and  still  less  in  the  points 
and  conceits  of  an  affected  gallantry,  which  surely  belong  not  to 
his  character  and  situation.  Some  of  these  conceits  are  the  chief 
blemishes  of  the  Italian  pastorals,  which  are  otherwise  beautiful. 
When  Aminta,  in  Tasso,  is  disentangling  his  mistress's  hair  from  the 
tree  to  which  a  savage  had  bound  it,  he  is  represented  as  saying : 
'Cruel  tree !  how  couldst  thou  injure  that  lovely  hair  which  did  ther 
so  much  honour?  Thy  rugged  trunk  was  not  worthy  of  such  lovr iy 


Mid  shades  of  thickest  beech  he  pin'd  alone, 

To  the  wild  woods  and  mountains  made  his  moan  ; 

Still  day  by  day,  in  incoherent  strains, 

'Twas  all  he  could,  despairing'  told  his  pains.  Warto» 


438  PASTOR^  POETRY.  [lect.  xxxix. 

knots.  What  advantage  have  the  servants  of  love,  if  those  precious 
chains  are  common  to  them,  and  to  the  trees  V*  Such  strained  senti- 
ments as  these,  ill  befit  the  woods.  Rural  personages  are  supposed 
to  speak  the  language  of  plain  sense,  and  natural  feelings.  When  they 
describe,  or  relate,  they  do  it  with  simplicity,  and  naturally  allude 
to  rural  circumstances;  as  in  those  beautiful  lines  of  one  of  Virgil*3 
Eclogues : 

S'epibus  in  nostris  parvam  te  roscida  mala 

(Dux  ego  vester  eram)  vidi  cum  matre  legentem  : 

Alter  ab  undecimo  turn  me  jam  ceperat  annus, 

Jam  fragiles  poteram  a  terra  contingere  ramos. 

Ut  vidi,  ut  perii,  ut  me  malus  abstulit  error  !f  VIII.  37. 

In  another  passage,  he  makes  a  shepherdess  throw  an  apple  at 
her  lover : 

Turn  fugit  ad  salices,  et  se  cupit  ante  videri.}  III.  65. 

This  is  naive,  as  the  French  express  it,  and  perfectly  suited  to  pas- 
toral manners.  Mr.  Pope  wanted  to  imitate  this  passage,  and,  as  he 
thought,  to  improve  upon  it.     He  does  it  thus: 

The  sprightly  Sylvia  trips  along  the  green, 
She  runs  ;  but  hopes  she  does  not  run  unseen  j 
While  a  kind  glance  at  her  pursuer  flies, 
How  much  at  variance  are  her  feet  and  eyes  ! 

This  falls  far  short  of  Virgil ;  the  natural  and  pleasing  simplicity 
of  the  description  is  destroyed,  by  the  quaint  and  affected  turn 
in  the  last  line :  "  How  much  at  variance  are  her  feet  and  eyes." 

Supposing  the  poet  to  have  formed  correct  ideas  concerning 
his  pastoral  characters  and  personages:  the  next  inquiry  is,  about 
what  is  he  to  employ  them  ?  and  what  are  to  be  the  subjects  of 
his  Eclogues?  For  it  is  not  enough,  that  he  gives  us  shepherds 
discoursing  together.  Every  good  poem,  of  every  kind,  ought  to 
have  a  subject  which  should,  in  some  way,  interest  us.  Now,  here 
I  apprehend,  lies  the  chief  difficulty  of  pastoral  writing.  The  ac- 
tive scenes  of  country  life  either  are,  or  to  most  describers  appear 
to  be,  too  barren  of  incidents.  The  state  of  a  shepherd,  or  a  per- 
son occupied  in  rural  employments  only,  is  exposed  to  few  of  those 

*  Gia  di  nodi  si  bei  non  era  degno 
Cosi  rovido  tronco  ;  or  che  vantaggio 
Hanno  i  servi  d'  amor,  se  lor  commune 
E'con  le  piante  il  pretioso  laccio .' 
Fianta  crudel !  potesti  quel  bel  crine 
Offender,  tu,  ch'a  te  seo  tanto  onore  ?  Atto  III.  Sc.  I 

t  Once  with  your  mother  to  our  field  you  came 
For  dewy  apples;  thence  1  date  my  flame; 
The  choicest  fruit  I  pointed  to  your  view, 
Tho'  young,  my  raptur'd  soul  was  fix'd  on  you; 
The  boughs  I  just  could  reach  with  little  arms  ; 
But  then,  even  then,  could  feel  thy  powerful  charms. 
O,  how  I  gaz'd,  in  pleasing  transport  tost  : 
How  glow'd  my  heart,  in  sweet  delusion  lost !  Warto». 

t  My  Phyllis  me  with  pelted  apples  plies  ; 
Then,  trippmg  to  the  wood,  the  wanton  hies, 
And  wishes  to  be  seen,  before  she  flies.  Drydm 


S.ECT.  xxxix.j  PASTORAL  POETRY.  439 

accidents  and  revolutions  which  render  his  situation  interesting,  or 
produce  curiosity  or  surprise.  The  tenoui  of  his  life  is  uniform. 
His  ambition  is  conceived  to  be  without  policy,  and  his  love  with- 
out intrigue.  Hence  it  is,  that,  of  all  poems,  the  most  meagre  com- 
monly in  the  subject,  and  the  least  diversified  in  the  strain,  is  the 
pastoral. 

From  the  first  lines,  we  can,  generally,  guess  at  all  that  is  to  fol- 
low. It  is  either  a  shepherd  who  sits  down  solitary  by  a  brook,  1o 
lament  the  absence  or  cruelty  of  his  mistress,  and  to  tell  us  how  the 
trees  wither,  and  the  flowers  droop,  now  that  she  is  gone ;  or  we 
have  two  shepherds  who  challenge  one  another  to  sing,  rehearsing 
alternate  verses,  which  have  little  either  of  meaning  or  subject,  till 
the  judge  rewards  one  with  a  studded  crook,  and  another  with  a 
beechen  bowl.  To  the  frequent  repetition  of  common-place  topics 
of  this  sort,  which  have  been  thrummed  over  by  all  Eclogue  writers 
since  the  days  of  Theocritus  and  Virgil,  is  owing  much  of  that  insi- 
pidity which  prevails  in  pastoral  compositions. 

I  much  question,  however,  whether  this  insipidity  be  not  owing 
lo  the  fault  of  the  poets,  and  to  their  barren  and  slavish  imitation 
of  the  ancient  pastoral  topics,  rather  than  to  the  confined  nature 
of  the  subject.  For  why  may  not  pastoral  poetry  take  a  wider 
range?  Human  nature,  and  human  passions,  are  much  the  same 
in  every  rank  of  life;  and  wherever  these  passions  operate  on  ob- 
jects that  are  within  the  rural  sphere,  there  may  be  a  proper  subject 
for  pastoral.  One  would  indeed  choose  to  remove  from  this  sort 
of  composition  the  operations  of  violent  and  direful  passions,  and 
to  present  such  only  as  are  consistent  with  innocence,  simplicity, 
and  virtue.  But  under  this  limitation,  there  will  still  be  abundant 
scope  for  a  careful  observer  of  nature  to  exert  his  genius.  The  various 
adventures  which  give  occasion  to  those  engaged  in  country  life  to 
display  their  disposition  and  temper;  the  scenes  of  domestic  felici- 
ty or  disquiet;  the  attachment  of  friends  and  brothers;  the  rival- 
ship  and  competition  of  lovers;  the  unexpected  success  or  mis- 
fortunes of  families,  might  give  occasion  to  many  a  pleasing  and 
tender  incident;  and  were  more  of  the  narrative  and  sentimental 
intermixed  with  the  descriptive  in  this  kind  of  poetry,  it  would  be- 
come much  more  interesting  than  it  now  generally  is,  to  the  bulk 
of  readers.* 

The  two  great  fathers  of  pastoral  poetry  are,  Theocritus  and  Vir- 
gil. Theocritus  was  a  Sicilian;  and  as  he  has  laid  the  scene  of  hi? 
Eclogues  in  his  own  country,  Sicily  became  ever  afterwards  a  sort  of 
consecrated  ground  for  pastoral  poetry.  His  Idylia,  as  he  has  enti- 
tled them,  are  not  all  of  equal  merit;  nor  indeed  are  they  all  pas- 
torals; but  some  of  them  poems  of  a  quite  different  nature.  Ir. 
such,  however,  as  are  properly  pastorals,  there  are  many  and  greaC 

*  The  above  observations  on  the  barrenness  of  the  common  Eclogues  were  written 
before  any  translation  from  the  German  had  made  us  acquainted  in  this  country  with 
Gesner's  Idyls,  in  which  the  ideas  that  had  occurred  to  me  for  the  improvement  of  pas 
torai  poetry,  are  fully  realized. 


■HO  PASTORAL  POETRY.  [lect.  xxxij 

beauties.  He  is  distinguished  for  the  simplicity  of  his  sentiments; 
tor  the  great  sweetness  and  harmony  of  his  numbers,  and  for  the 
richness  of  his  scenery  and  description.  He  is  the  original,  of 
whicii  Virgil  is  the  imitator.  For  most  of  Virgil's  highest  beauties 
in  his  Eclogues  are  copied  from  Theocritus;  in  many  places  he 
has  done  nothing  more  than  translate  him.  He  must  be  allowed, 
however,  to  have  imitated  him  with  great  judgment,  and  in  some 
respects  to  have  improved  upon  him.  For  Theocritus,  it  cannot 
he  denied,  descends  sometimes  into  ideas  that  are  gross  and  mean, 
:md  makes  his  shepherds  abusive  and  immodest;  whereas  Virgil  is 
free  from  offensive  rusticity,  and  at  the  same  time  preserves  the 
character  of  pastoral  simplicity.  The  same  distinction  obtains  be- 
tween Theocritus  and  Virgil,  as  between  many  othei  of  the  Greek 
and  Roman  writers.  The  Greek  led  the  way,  followed  nature 
more  closely,  and  showed  more  original  genius  The  Roman  dis- 
covered more  of  the  polish  and  correctness  of  art.  We  have  a  few 
remains  of  two  other  Greek  poets  in  the  pastoral  style,  Moschus  and 
Bion,  which  have  very  considerable  merit;  and  if  they  want  the 
simplicity  of  Theocritus,  excel  him  in  tenderness  and  delicacy. 

The  modern  writers  of  pastorals  have,  generally,  contented  them- 
selves with  copying,  or  imitating,the  descriptions  and  sentiments  of 
the  ancient  poets.  Sannazarius,  indeed,  a  famous  Latin  poet,  in  the 
age  of  Leo  X.  attempted  a  bold  innovation.  He  composed  Pis- 
catory Eclogues,  changing  the  scene  from  woods  to  the  sea,  and 
from  the  life  of  shepherds  to  that  of  fishermen.  But  the  innovation 
was  so  unhappy,  that  he  has  gained  no  followers.  For  the  life  of  fish- 
ermen is,  obviously,  much  more  hard  and  toilsome  than  that  0/ 
shepherds,  and  presents  to  the  fancy  much  less  agreeable  images. 
Flocks,  and  trees,  and  flowers,  are  objects  of  greater  beauty,  and 
more  generally  relished  by  men,  than  fishes  and  marine  productions. 
Of  all  the  moderns,  M.  Gesner,  a  poet  of  Switzerland,  has  been 
the  most  successful  in  his  pastoral  compositions.  He  has  introduced 
into  his  Idyls  (as  he  entitles  them)  many  new  ideas.  His  rural 
scenery  is  often  striking,  and  his  descriptions  are  lively.  He  pre- 
sents pastoral  life  to  us,  with  all  the  embellishments  of  which  it  is 
susceptible;  but  without  any  excess  of  refinement.  What  forms 
the  chief  merit  of  this  poet  is,  xhat  he  writes  to  the  heart ;  and  has 
enriched  the  subject  of  his  Idyls  with  incidents  which  give  rise  to 
much  tender  sentiment.  Scenes  of  domestic  felicity  are  beautifully 
painted.  The  mutual  affection  of  husbands  and  wives,  of  parents  and 
children,  of  brothers  and  sisters,  as  well  as  of  lovers,  are  displayed 
in  a  pleasing  and  touching  manner.  From  not  understanding  the 
language  in  which  M.  Gesner  writes,  I  can  be  no  judge  of  the  po- 
etiy  of  his  style:  but,  in  the  subject  and  conduct  of  his  pastorals, 
he  appears  to  me  to  have  outdone  sll  the  moderns. 

Neither  Mr.  Pope's  nor  Mr.  Philips's  pastorals,  do  any  great  hon- 
our to  the  English  poevvy.  Mr.  Pope's  were  composed  in  his  youth; 
which  may  be  an  apology  for  other  faults,  but  cannot  well  excuse 
the  barrenness  that  appears  in  them.  They  are  written  in  re- 
markably smooth  and  flowing  numbers:   and  this  is  their   chief 


lbct.  xxxix.]  PASTORAL  POETRY.  441 

merit;  for  there  is  scarcely  any  thought  in  them  which  can  be  called 
his  own;  scarcely  any  description,  or  any  image  of  nature,  which 
has  the  marks  of  being  original,  or  copied  from  nature  herself;  but 
a  repetition  of  the  common  images  that  are  to  be  found  in  Virgil, 
and  in  all  poets  who  write  of  rural  themes.  Philips  attempted  to 
be  more  simple  and  natural  than  Pope ;  but  he  wanted  genius  to 
support  his  attempt,  or  to  write  agreeably.  He,  too,  runs  on  the 
common  and  beaten  topics ;  and  endeavouring  to  be  simple,  he  be- 
comes flat  and  insipid.  There  was  no  small  competition  between 
these  two  authors,  at  the  time  when  their  pastorals  where  pub- 
lished. In  some  papers  of  the  Guardian,  great  partiality  was  shown 
to  Philips  and  high  praise  bestowed  upon  him.  Mr.  Pope,  resenting 
this  preference,  under  a  feigned  name,  procured  a  paper  to  be  in- 
serted in  the  Guardian,  wherein  he  seemingly  carries  on  the  plan 
of  extolling  Philips ;  but  in  reality  satirises  him  most  severely  with 
ironical  praises ;  and  in  an  artful  covered  manner,  gives  the  palm 
to  himself.*  About  the  same  time,  Mr.  Gay  published  his  Shep- 
herd's Week,  in  six  pastorals,  which  are  designed  to  ridicule  that  sort 
of  simplicity  which  Philips  and  his  partisans  extolled,  andare,indeed. 
an  ingenious  burlesque  of  pastoral  writing,  when  it  rises  no  higher 
than  the  manners  of  modern  clowns  and  rustics.  Mr.  Shenstone's 
pastoral  ballad,  in  four  parts,  may  justly  be  reckoned,  I  think,  one  of 
the  most  elegant  poems  of  this  kind  which  we  have  in  English. 

I  have  not  yet  mentioned  one  form  in  which  pastoral  writing  has 
appeared  in  latter  ages,  that  is,  when  extended  into  a  play,  or  regu- 
lar drama,  where  plot,  characters,  and  passions,  are  joined  witn 
the  simplicity  and  innocence  of  rural  manners.  This  is  the  chief 
improvement  which  the  moderns  have  made  on  this  species  of 
composition  ;  and  of  this  nature,  we  have  two  Italian  pieces  which 
are  much  celebrated,  Guarini's  Pastor  Fido,  and  Tasso's  Aminta 
Both  of  these  possess  great  beauties  and  are  entitled  to  the  reputa- 
tion they  have  gained.  To  the  latter,  the  preference  seems  due,  as 
being  less  intricate  in  the  plot  and  conduct,  and  less  strained  and  affec- 
ted in  the  sentiments ;  and  though  not  wholly  free  from  Italian  refine- 
ment, (of  which  I  already  gave  one  instance,  the  worst  indeed,  that 
occurs  in  all  the  poem,)  it  is,  on  the  whole,  a  performance  of  high 
merit.  The  strain  of  the  poetry  is  gentle  and  pleasing;  and  the 
Italian  language  contributes  to  add  much  of  that  softness,  which  is 
peculiarly  suited  to  pastoral. t 

*  See  Guardian,  No.  40. 

t  It  may  be  proper  to  take  notice  here,  that  the  charge  against  Tasso  for  his 
points  and  conceits,  has  sometimes  been  carried  too  far.  Mr.  Addison,  for  in- 
stance, in  a  paper  of  the  Guardian,  censuring  his  Aminta,  gives  this  example 
•That  Sylvia  enters  adorned  with  a  garland  of  flowers,  and  after  viewing  herself 
in  a  fountain,  breaks  out  in  a  speecV  to  the  flowers  on  her  head,  and  tells  them  that 
she  did  not  wear  them  to  adorn  herself,  but  to  make  them  ashamed.'  <  Whoever 
can  bear  this,' he  adds, 'may  be  assured,  that  he  has  no  taste  for  pastoral.'  Guard. 
No.  38.  But  Tasso's  Sylvia,  in  truth,  makes  no  such  ridiculous  figure,  and  we 
are  obliged  *o  suspect  that  Mr.  Addison  had  not  read  the  Aminta.  Daphne,  a. 
companion  of  Sylvia,  appears  in  conversation  with  Thyrsis,  the  confidant  of  Amin- 
ta, Sylvia's  lover,  and  in  order  to  show  him  that  Sylvia  was  not  so  simple,  or  in 

56 


442  PASTORAL  POETRY.  [lect.  xxxix 

I  must  not  omit  the  mention  of  another  pastoral  drama,  which 
will  bear  being  brought  into  comparison  with  any  composition  of 
this  kind,  in  any  language ;  that  is,  A  llan  Ramsay's  Gentle  Shepherd. 
It  is  a  great  disadvantage  to  this  beautiful  poem,  that  it  is  written  in 
the  old  rustic  dialect  of  Scotland,  which,  in  a  short  time,  will  pro- 
bably be  entirely  obsolete,  and  not  intelligible;  and  it  is  a  farther  dis- 
advantage, that  it  is  so  entirely  formed  on  the  rural  manners  of  Scot- 
land, that  none  but  a  native  of  that  country  can  thoroughly  under- 
sensible  to  her  own  charms,  as  she  affected  to  be,  gives  him  this  instance ;  that 
she  had  caught  her  one  day  adjusting  her  dress  by  a  fountain,  and  applying  now 
one  flower  and  now  another  to  her  neck,  and  after  comparing  their  colours  with 
her  own,  she  broke  into  a  smile,  as  if  she  had  seemed  to  say,  I  will  wear  you  not 
for  my  ornaments,  but  to  show  how  much  you  yield  to  me  ;  and  when  caught  thus 
admiring  herself,  she  threw  away  her  flowers,  and  blushed  for  shame.  This  de- 
scription of  the  vanity  of  a  rural  coquette,  is  no  more  than  what  is  natural,  and  very  dif- 
ferent from  what  the  author  of  the  Guardian  represents  it. 

This  censure  on  Tasso  was  not  originally  Mr.  Addison's.  Bouhours  in  his  Ma 
niere  de  bien  ptnstr  dans  les  outrages  cTespril,  appears  to  have  been  the  first  who  gave 
this  misrepresentation  of  Sylvia's  speech,  and  founded  a  criticism  on  it.  Fonte- 
nelle,  in  his  discourse  on  Pastoral  Poetry,  followed  him  in  this  criticism.  Mr.  Ad- 
dison, or  whoever  was  the  author  of  that  paper  in  the  Guardian,  copied  from  them 
both.  Mr.  Warton,  in  the  Prefatory  Discourse  Jo  his  Translation  of  Virgil's 
Eclogues,  repeats  the  observation.  Sylvia's  speech  to  the  flowers,  with  which 
she  was  adorned,  is  always  quoted  as  the  flagrant  instance  of  the  false  taste  of  the 
Italian  poets.  Whereas,  Tasso  gives  us  no  such  speech  of  Sylvia's,  but  only  in- 
forms us  of  what  her  companion  supposed  her  to  be  thinking,  or  saying  to  herseH 
when  she  was  privately  admiring  her  own  beauty.  After  charging  so  many  emi- 
nent critics,  for  having  fallen  into  this  strange  inaccuracy,  from  copying  one  anoth- 
er, without  looking  into  the  author  whom  they  censure,  it  is  necessary  for  me  t* 
insert  the  passage  which  has  occasioned  this  remark  Daphne  speaks  thus  U 
Thyrsis  : 

Hora  per  dirti  il  ver,  non  mi  resolvo 

Si  Silvia  &  semplicetta,  come  pare 

A  le  parole,  a  gli  atti.     Hier  vidi  un  segno 

Che  me  ne  mette  in  dubbio.     lo  la  trovai 

La  presso  la  cittade  in  quei  gran  prati, 

Ove  fra  stagni  grace  un  isoletta, 

Sovra  essa  un  lago  limpido  e  tranquillo, 

Tutta  pendente  in  atto,  che  parea 

Vagheggiar  fe  medesma,  e'nsieme  insiemo 

Chieder  consiglio  a  l'acque,  in  qua]  maniera 

Dispor  dovesse  in  su  la  fronte  i  crini, 

E  sovra  i  crini  il  velo,  e  sovral  velo 

1  fior,  che  tenea  in  grembo ;  e  spesso  spesso 

Hor  prendeva  un  ligustro,  hor  una  rosa, 

E  l'accostava  al  bel  candido  collo, 

A  le  guancie  venniglie,  e  de  colori 

Fea  paragone  ;  e  poi,  ficome  Heta 

De  la  vittoria,  lampeggiava  un  riso 

Che  parea  che  dicesse :  io  pur  vi  vraco  J 

Ni  porto  voi  per  ornamento  mio, 

Ma  porto  voi  sol  per  vergogna  vostra, 

Perche  si  veggia  quanto  mi  cedete. 

Ma  mentre  ella  s'ornava,  e  vagheggiaya 

Rivolsi  gli  occhi  a  caso,  e  si  fu  accorta, 

Ch'io  di  la  m'era  accona,  e  vergognando, 

Rizzosi  tosto,  e  i  fior  lascio  cadere ; 

kn  tanto  io  piu  ridea  del  suo  rossore, 

Ella  piu  s'arrossia  de!  riso  mio.  Am  hit  a.  Atto  II  8c.  ii. 


Lficr.  xxxix.]  LYRIC  POETRY.  443 

stand  or  relish  it.  But,  though  subject  to  these  local  disadvantages, 
which  confine  its  reputation  within  narrow  limits,  it  is  full  of  so  much 
natural  description,  and  tender  sentiment,  as  would  do  honour  to 
any  poet.  The  characters  are  well  drawn,  the  incidents  affecting, 
the  scenery  and  manners  lively  and  just.  It  affords  a  strong  proof, 
both  of  the  power  which  nature  and  simplicity  possess,  to  re°.ch  the 
heart  in  every  sort  of  writing;  and  of  the  variety  of  pleasing  charac- 
ters and  subjects,  with  which  pastoral  poetry,  when  properly  mana- 
ged, is  capable  of  being  enlivened. 

I  proceed  next,  to  treat  of  lyric  poetry,  or  the  ode ;  a  species  of 
poetical  composition  which  possesses  much  dignity,  and  in  which 
many  writers  have  distinguished  themselves,  in  every  age.  Its  pe- 
culiar character  is,  that  it  is  intended  to  be  sung,  or  accompanied 
with  music.  Its  designation  implies  this.  Ode  is,  in  Greek,  the 
same  with  song  or  hymn;  and  lyric  poetry  imports,  that  the  verses 
are  accompanied  with  a  lyre,  or  musical  instrument.  This  distinc- 
tion was  not,  at  first,  peculiar  to  any  one  species  of  poetry.  For,  as 
I  observed  in  the  last  lecture,  music  and  poetry  were  coeval,  and 
were,  originally,  always  joined  together.  But  after  their  separation 
took  place,  after  bards  had  begun  to  make  verse  compositions,  which 
were  to  be  recited  or  read,  not  to  be  sung,  such  poems  as  were  de- 
signed to  be  still  joined  with  music  or  song,  were,  by  way  of  distinc- 
tion, called  odes. 

In  the  ode,  therefore,  poetry  retains  its  first  and  most  ancient  form ; 
that  form,  under  which  the  original  bards  poured  forth  their  enthusi- 
astic strains,  praised  their  gods  and  their  heroes,  celebrated  their  vic- 
tories, and  lamented  their  misfortunes.  It  is  from  this  circumstance, 
of  the  ode's  being  supposed  to  retain  its  original  union  with  music, 
that  we  are  to  deduce  the  proper  idea,  and  the  peculiar  qualities  of 
this  kind  of  poetry.  It  is  not  distinguished  from  other  kinds,  by  the 
subjects  on  which  it  is  employed  ;  for  these  may  be  extremely  vari- 
ous. I  know  no  distinction  of  subject  that  belongs  to  it,  except  that 
other  poems  are  often  employed  in  the  recital  of  actions,  whereas 
sentiments  of  one  kind  or  other,  form,  almost  always,  the  subject  of 
the  ode.  But  it  is  chiefly  the  spirit,  the  manner  of  its  execution 
that  marks  and  characterizes  it.  Music  and  song  naturally  add  to 
the  warmth  of  poetry.  They  tend  to  transport,  in  a  higher  degree, 
both  the  person  who  sings,  and  the  persons  who  hear.  They  justify, 
therefore,  a  bolder  and  more  passionate  strain,  than  can  be  support- 
ed in  simple  recitation.  On  this  is  formed  the  peculiar  character  of 
the  ode.  Hence,  the  enthusiasm  that  belongs  to  it,  and  the  liber- 
ties it  is  allowed  to  take,  beyond  any  other  species  of  poetry.  Hence, 
that  neglect  of  regularity,  those  digressions,  and  that  disorder  which 
it  is  supposed  to  admit;  and  which,  indeed,  most  lyric  poets  have 
not  failed  sufficiently  to  exemplify  in  their  practice. 

The  effects  of  music  upon  the  mind  are  chiefly  two  ;  to  raise  it 
above  its  ordinary  state,  and  fill  it  with  high  enthusiastic  emotions  ; 
or  to  sooth, .and  melt  it  into  the  gentle  pleasurable  feelings.  Hence, 
the  ode  may  either  aspire  to  the  former  character  of  the  sublime 
and  noble,  or  it  may  descend  to  the  latter  of  the  pleasant  and  the 


444  LYRIC  POETRY.  [lect.  xxxix, 

gay;  and  between  these,  there  is,  also,  a  middle  region  of  the  mild 
and  temperate  emotions,  which  the  ode  may  often  occupy  to  advan- 
tage. 

All  odes  may  be  comprised  under  four  denominations.  First,  sa- 
cred odes;  hymns  addressed  to  God,  or  composed  on  religious  sub- 
jects. Of  this  nature  are  the  Psalms  of  David,  which  exhibit  to  us 
this  species  of  lyric  poetry,  in  its  highest  degree  of  perfection. 
Secondly,  heroic  odes,  which  are  employed  in  the  praise  of  heroes, 
and  in  the  celebration  of  martial  exploits  and  great  actions.  Of 
this  kind  are  all  Pindar's  odes,  and  some  few  of  Horace's.  These 
two  kinds  ought  to  have  sublimity  and  elevation,  for  their  reigning 
character. 

Thirdly,  moral  and  philosophical  odes,  where  the  sentiments  are 
chiefly  inspired  by  virtue,  friendship,and  humanity.  Of  this  kind, 
are  many  of  Horace's  odes,  and  several  of  our  best  modern  lyric  pro- 
ductions; and  here  the  ode  possesses  that  middle  region,  which,  as 
I  observed,  it  sometimes  occupies.  Fourthly,  festive  and  amorous 
odes,  calculated  merely  for  pleasure  and  amusement.  Of  this  na- 
ture are  all  Anacreon's,  some  of  Horace's;  and  a  great  number  of 
songs  and  modern  productions,  that  claim  to  be  of  the  lyric  species. 
The  reigning  character  of  these,  ought  to  be  elegance,  smoothness, 
and  gayety. 

One  of  the  chief  difficulties  in  composing  odes,  arises  from  that 
enthusiasm  which  is  understood  to  be  a  characteristic  of  lyric  po- 
etry. A  professed  ode,  even  of  the  moral  kind,  but  more  especially 
if  it  attempt  the  sublime,  is  expected  to  be  enlivened  and  animated 
in  an  uncommon  degree.  Full  of  this  idea,  the  poet,  when  he  begins 
to  write  an  ode,  if  he  has  any  real  warmth  of  genius,  is  apt  to  deliver 
himself  up  to  it,  without  control  or  restraint;  if  he  has  it  not,  he 
strains  after  it,  and  thinks  himself  bound  to  assume  the  appearance 
of  being  all  fervour,  and  all  flame.  In  either  case,  he  is  in  great  haz- 
ard of  becoming  extravagant.  The  licentiousness  of  writing  without 
order,  method,  or  connexion,  has  infected  the  ode  more  than  any 
other  species  of  poetry.  Hence,  in  the  class  of  heroic  odes,  we  find 
so  few  that  one  can  read  with  pleasure.  The  poet  is  out  of  sight  in 
a  moment.  He  gets  up  into  the  clouds;  becomes  so  abrupt  in  his 
transitions;  so  eccentric  and  irregular  in  his  motions,  and  of  course 
so  obscure,  that  we  essay  in  vain  to  follow  him,  or  to  partake  of  his 
raptures.  I  do  not  require,  that  an  ode  should  be  as  regular  in  the 
structure  of  its  parts,  as  a  didactic  or  an  epic  poem.  But  still  in  every 
.composition,  there  ought  to  be  a  subject;  there  ought  to  be  parts 
which  make  up  a  whole  ;  there  should  be  a  connexion  of  those  parts 
with  one  another.  The  transitions  from  thought  to  thought  may  be 
light  and  delicate,  such  as  are  prompted  by  a  lively  fancy  ;  but  stil) 
they  should  be  such  as  preserve  the  connexion  of  ideas,  and  show 
the  author  to  be  one  who  thinks,  and  not  one  who  raves.  Whatever  au- 
thority may  be  pleaded  for  the  incoherence  and  disorder  of  lyric 
poetry,  nothing  can  be  more  certain,  than  that  any  composition  which 


lect.xxxix.]  LYRIC  POETRY.  445 

is  so  regular  in  its  method,  as  to  become  obscure  to  the  bulk  of  read- 
ers, is  so  much  worse  upon  that  account.* 

The  extravagant  liberty  which  several  of  the  modern  lyric  writers 
assume  to  themselves  in  the  versification,  increases  the  disorder  of 
this  species  of  poetry.  They  prolong  their  periods  to  such  a  degree, 
they  wander  through  so  many  different  measures  and  employ  such 
a  variety  of  long  and  short  lines,  corresponding  in  rhyme  at  so  great 
a  distance  from  each  other,  that  all  sense  of  melody  is  utterly  lost. 
Whereas,  lyric  composition  ought,  beyond  every  other  species  of 
poetry,  to  pay  attenti  on  to  melody  and  beauty  of  sound ;  and  the 
versification  of  those  odes  may  be  justly  accounted  the  best,  which 
renders  the  harmony  of  the  measure  most  sensible  to  every  common 
ear. 

Pindar,  the  great  father  of  lyric  poetry,  has  been  the  occasion  of 
leading  his  imitators  into  some  of  the  defects  I  have  now  mentioned. 
Hi»  genius  was  sublime;  his  expressions  are  beautiful  and  happy; 
his  descriptions  picturesque.  But  finding  it  a  very  barren  subject 
to  sing  the  praises  of  those  who  had  gained  the  prize  in  the  public 
games,  he  is  perpetually  digressive,  and  fills  up  his  poems  with  fables 
of  the  gods  and  heroes,  that  have  little  connexion  either  with  his 
subject,  or  with  one  another.  The  ancients  admired  him  greatly  ; 
but  as  many  of  the  histories  of  particular  families  and  cities,  to  which 
he  alludes,  are  now  unknown  to  us,  he  is  so  obscure,  partly  from  his 
subjects,  and  partly  from  his  rapid,  abrupt  manner  of  treating  them, 
that,  notwithstanding  the  beauty  of  his  expression,  our  pleasure  in 
reading  him  is  much  diminished.  One  would  imagine,  that  many 
of  his  modern  imitators  thought  the  best  way  to  catch  his  spirit,  was 
to  imitate  his  disorder  and  obscurity.  In  several  of  the  choruses  of 
Euripides  and  Sophocles,  we  have  the  same  kind  of  lyric  poetry  as 
in  Pindar,  carried  on  with  more  clearness  and  connexion,  and  at  the 
same  time  with  much  sublimity. 

Of  all  the  writers  of  odes,  ancient  or  modern,  there  is  none, 
that  in  point  of  correctness,  harmony,  and  happy  expression,  car: 
vie  with  Horace.     He  has  descended  from  the  Pindaric  rapture  to 

*  "  La  plupart  de  ceux  qui  parlent  de  l'enthousiasme  de  l'ode,  en  parlent  comme 
s'ils  etoient  eux-memes  dans  le  trouble  qu'ils  veulent  definir.  Ce  ne  sont  que 
grands  mots  de  fureur  divine,  de  transports  de  lame,  de  mouveraens,  de  lumieres, 
qui,  mis  bout  a -bout  dans  des  phrases  pompeuses,  ne  produisent  pourtant  aucune 
id£e  distincte.  Si  on  les  en  croit,  l'essence  de  l'enthousiasme  est  de  ne  pouvoii 
etre  compris  que  par  les  esprits  du  premiere  ordre,  k  la  tete  desquels  ils  se  suppo- 
5-ent,  et  dont  ils  excluent  tous  ceux  que  osent  ne  les  pas  entendre. — Le  beau  desor- 
dre  de  l'ode  est  un  effet  de  l'art;  mais  il  faut  prendre  garde  de  donner  trop  d'eten 
due  k  ce  terme.  On  autoriseroit  par-Ik  tous  les  hearts  imaginables.  Un  pofite 
n'auroit  plus  qu'k  exprimer  avec  force  toutes  les  pensees  qui  lui  viendroient  suc- 
cessivement ;  il  se  tiendroit  dispense  d'en  examiner  le  rapport,  et  de  se  faire  uu 
plan,  dont  toutes  les  parties  se  pretassent  mutuellement  des  beautes.  II  n'y  auroit 
ni  commencement,  ni  milieu,  ni  fin,  dans  son  ouvrage ;  et  cependant  l'auteur  se 
croiroit  d'autant  plus  sublime,  qu'  il  seroit  moins  raisonnable.  Mais  qui  produiroit 
une  pareille  composition  dans  l'esprit  du  lecteur?  Elle  ne  iaisseroit  qu'un  6tour 
dissement,  causfe  par  la  magnificence  et  l'havmonie  des  paroles,  sans  y  faire  naitr* 
que  des  id6es  confuses,  qui  chasseroient  1'une  ou  l'autre,  au  lieu  de  concourir  en- 
semble k  fixer  et  a  &rlairer  l'esprit."  CEuvres  de  M  De  la  Motte,  tonj.  I.  Dis* 
i  ours  sur  l'Ode. 


446  LYRIC  POETRY.  [lect.  xxxi* 

a  more  moderate  degree  of- elevation ;  and  joins  connected  thought, 
and  good  sense,  with  the  highest  beauties  of  poetry.  He  does  not 
often  aspire  beyond  that  middle  region,  which  I  mentioned  as  be- 
longing to  the  ode;  and  those  odes,  in  which  he  attempts  the  sub- 
lime, are  perhaps  not  always  his  best.*  The  peculiar  character,  in 
which  he  excels,  is  grace  and  elegance  ;  and  in  this  style  of  compo- 
sition, no  poet  has  ever  attained  to  a  greater  perfection  than  Horace. 
No  poet  supports  a  moral  sentiment  with  more  dignity,  touches  a 
gay  one  more  happily,  or  possesses  the  art  of  trifling  more  agree- 
ably, when  he  chooses  to  trifle.  His  language  is  so  fortunate,  that 
with  a  single  word  or  epithet,  he  often  conveys  a  whole  description 
to  the  fancy.  Hence  he  ever  has  been,  and  ever  will  continue  10 
be,  a  favourite  author  with  all  persons  of  taste. 

Among  the  Latin  poets  of  later  ages,  there  have  been  many  imi- 
tators of  Horace.  One  of  the  most  distinguished  is  Casimir,  a 
Polish  poet  of  the  last  century,  who  wrote  four  books  of  odes.  In 
graceful  ease  of  expression,  he  is  far  inferior  to  the  Roman.  He 
oftener  affects  the  sublime  ;  and  in  the  attempt,  like  other  lyric  wri- 
ters, frequently  becomes  harsh  and  unnatural.  But,  on  several  oc- 
casions, he  discovers  a  considerable  degree  of  original  genius,  and 
poetical  fire.  Buchanan,  in  some  of  his  lyric  compositions,  is  very 
elegant  and  classical. 

Among  the  French,  the  odes  of  Jean  Baptiste  Rousseau,  have 
been  much,  and  justly  celebrated.  They  possess  great  beauty,  both 
of  sentiment  and  expression.  They  are  animated,  without  being 
rhapsodical;  and  are  not  inferior  to  any  poetical  productions  in  the 
French  language. 

In  our  own  language,  we  have  several  lyric  compositions  of  con- 
siderable merit.  Dryden's  ode  on  St.  Cecilia,  is  well  known.  Mr. 
Gray  is  distinguished  in  some  of  his  odes,  both  for  tenderness  and 
subiimity;  and  in  Dodsley's  Miscellanies,  several  very  beautiful  lyric 
poems  are  to  be  found.  As  to  professed  Pindaric  odes,  they  are, 
with  a  few  exceptions,  so  incoherent,  as  seldom  to  be  intelligible. 
Cowley,  at  all  times  harsh,  is  doubly  so  in  his  Pindaric  compositions 
In  his  Anacreontic  odes,  he  is  much  happier.  They  are  smooth 
and  elegant ;  and  indeed  the  most  agreeable  and  the  most  perfect  in 
their  kind,  of  all  Mr.  Cowley's  Poems. 

*  There  is  no  ode  whatever  of  Horace's,  without  great  beauties.  But  though  I  ' 
may  be  singular  in  my  opinion,  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  in  some  of  those  odes 
which  have  been  much  admired  for  sublimity,  (such  as  Ode  iv.  lib.  4.  <  Qualem  mi- 
nistrum  fulminis  alitem,'  &ic.)  there  appears  somewhat  of  a  strained  and  forced  ef- 
fort to  be  lofty.  The  genius  of  this  amiable  poet  shows  itself,  according  tp  my 
judgment,  to  greater  advantage,  in  themes  of  a  more  temperate  kind. 


(  446  a  ) 


QUESTIONS 


In  the  last  lecture,  of  what  was  an 
account  given;  and  on  what  were  some 
observations  made  ?  To  what  does  our 
author  now  proceed  ?  What  order  is 
followed?  What  is  the  subject  of  this 
lecture?  With  what  does  our  author 
begin ;  and  of  the  time  of  which  it  was 
first  cultivated,  what  is  observed?  What 
fancy  have  most  autnors  indulged  ?  Of 
what  does  our  author  make  no  doubt ; 
but  rf  what  is  he  persuaded  ?  By 
what,  in  the  first  periods  of  every  na- 
tion, was  it  inspired  ?  What  furnished 
the  first  themes  to  the  bards  of  every 
country  ?  Why  was  what  was  of  a 
pastoral  kind,  in  their  compositions,  inci- 
dental only  ?  When  did  pastoral  poetry 
assume  its  present  form?  How  came 
men  to  conceive  the  idea  of  celebrating 
pastoral  life  in  poetry?  Where  did 
Theocritus,  and  where  did  Virgil,  write 
their  pastorals?  Why  is  pastoral  poetry, 
a  natural  and  very  agreeable  form  of 
poetical  composition  ?  From  what  does 
it  appear  that  pastoral  life  is  very  fa- 
vourable to  poetry  ?  Hence,  what  has 
been  the  effect  of  this  species  of  poetry  ? 
But,  notwithstanding  the  advantages 
it  possesses,  what  follows?  In  what 
three  different  views  may  pastoral  life 
be  considered  ?  Of  the  first  and  last  of 
these  three  states,  what  is  observed  ? 
Where  must  the  poet  therefore  keep  ? 
What  must  he  form  to  himself?  For 
what  does  the  great  charm  of  pastoral 
poetry  arise?  What  must  the  poet 
therefore  do  ?  What  must  he  display  to 
us ;  and  what  hide  ?  Repeat  the  fol- 
lowing passage  from  Virgil.  How 
should  he  paint  it?  Why  may  distresses 
and  anxieties  be  attributed  to  it ;  but 
of  what  nature  must  they  be?  For 
what  may  the  shepherd  well  be  afflict- 
ed ;  and  why  ?  In  short,  in  what  man- 
ner only  should  the  pastoral  life  be  pre- 
sented to  us  ?  But  about  what  should 
he  take  care  ?  If  it  be  not  real  fife  that 
is  presented  to  us,  what  must  it  be? 
That  we  may  examine  this  general 
idea  of  pastoral  poetry  more  particular- 
ly, what  order  shall  we  pursue?  As 
to  the  scene,  what  is  clear,  and  on  what 
does  much  of  the  poet's  merit  depend  ? 
Of  Theocritus's  descriptions  of  natural 
beauties,  what  is  observed  ?  Repeat  the 
passage  illustrative  of  this  remark?  In 
every  pastoral,  what  should  be  distinct- 
V  drawn,  and  set  before  us  ?  What  is 


not  sufficient?  What  ought  a  good  poet 
to  give  us?  How  is  this  remark  illus- 
trated ?  What  will  sometimes  charac- 
terize a  whole  scene  ?  What  illustration 
is  given?  In  what,  above  all  things, 
must  the  poet  study  variety  ?  How 
must  he  diversify  his  face  of  nature,  or, 
otherwise,  what  will  be  the  conse- 
quence? What  is  also  incumbent  on 
him  ?  Repeat  the  illustration  of  this  re- 
mark from  Virgil  ?  With  regard  to  the 
characters,  or  persons,  which  are  proper 
to  be  introduced  into  pastorals,  what  is 
not  sufficient  ?  How  is  this  observation 
illustrated  ?  What  is  one  of  the  princi- 
pal difficulties  which  here  occurs?  Of 
the  shepherd,  what  is  observed  ?  What 
qualities  may  he  possess?  But  then, 
what  must  he  not  do  ?  Of  what  pasto- 
rals are  some  of  these  conceits  the  chief 
blemishes  ?  What  illustration  of  this  re- 
mark is  given  from  Tasso  ?  What  lan- 
guage are  rural  personages  supposed 
to  speak  ?  When  they  describe  or  re- 
late, how  do  they  do  it?  What  illustra- 
tion of  this  remark  is  given  ?  In  ano- 
ther passage,  what  does  he  do ;  and  in 
what  language  ?  What  did  Mr.  Pope 
wish  to  do ;  and  how  does  he  do  it  ?  Of 
what  does  this  fall  short ;  and  how  is 
the  natural  and  pleasing  simplicity  of 
the  description  destroyed?  Supposing 
the  poet  to  have  formed  correct  ideas 
concerning  his  characters  and  persona- 
ges, what  is  the  next  inquiry ;  and 
why  ?  What  ought  every  good  poem, 
of  every  kind,  to  have?  In  what  lies  the 
chief  difficulty  of  pastoral  writing? 
Hence,  what  follows?  From  the  first 
lines,  at  what  can  we  guess?  How  is 
this  remark  fully  illustrated  ?  To  what 
is  much  of  that  insipidity  owing,  which 
prevails  in  pastoral  writing?  What, 
however,  is  much  to  be  questioned  ;  and 
what  remark  follows?  What  would 
one  choose  to  remove  from  this  sort  of 
composition?  But  under  this  limitation, 
for  what  will  there  still  be  abundant 
scope  ?  How  is  this  remark  illustrated? 
Who  are  the  two  great  fathers  of  pas- 
toral poetry  ?  Who  was  Theocritus,  and 
what  remark  follows?  Of  his  Idylia, 
what  is  observed  ?  For  what  is  he  dis- 
tinguished ?  From  what  does  it  appear 
that  he  is  the  original  of  which  Virgil 
is  the  imitator  ?  What,  however,  must 
he  be  allowed  to  have  done ;  and  Why? 
What  distinction  obtains  between  them? 


446  b 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  XXXIX 


How  is  this  remark  illustrated?  Of 
what  other  Greek  writers  of  pastorals 
have  we  remains,  and  what  is  said  of 
them?  With  what  have  the  modern 
writers  of  pastorals,  generally,  content- 
ed themselves?  Who,  however,  at- 
tempted a  bold  innovation ;  and  what 
was  it  ?  Why  has  not  this  innovation 
gained  followers;  and  what  follows? 
■Of  all  the  moderns,  who  has  been  the 
most  successful  in  pastoral  composi- 
tions? What  peculiar  excellencies  do 
they  possess  ?  Of  Mr.  Pope's  and  Mr. 
Philips's  pastorals,  what  is  observed  ? 
What  may  be  an  apology  for  Mr. 
Pope's  faults?  What  is  their  chief 
merits;  and  why?  What  did  Philips 
attempt,  and  how  did  he  succeed  ?  Of 
these  two  writers,  what  is  further  re- 
marked? About  the  same  time,  what  did 
Mr.  Gay  publish ;  and  what  was  their 
design?  What  is  said  of  them  ?  Of  Mr. 
Shenstone's  pastoral  ballad,  what  is 
observed?  What  has  not  yet  been 
mentioned  ?  Of  this  improvement,  what 
is  remarked  ?  Of  this  nature,  what  two 
Italian  pieces  have  we,  and  what  is 
said  of  them?  Of  the  latter,  what  is 
observed?  What  other  pastoral  drama 
does  our  author  mention  ?  What  are 
great  disadvantages  to  this  beautiful 

!)oem  ?  But,  though  subject  to  those 
ocal  disadvantages,  yet,  of  it,  what  re- 
mark follows  ?  What  is  observed  of  the 
characters  ;  and  of  what  does  it  afford 
a  strong  proof?  To  what  does  our  au- 
thor next  proceed  ;  and  what  is  obser- 
ved of  it  ?  What  is  its  peculiar  charac- 
ter ?  By  what  is  this  implied ;  and  how 
is  it  illustrated  ?  From  what  does  it  ap- 
pear that  this  distinction  was  not,  at 
first,  peculiar  to  any  kind  of  poetry? 
When  were  such  poems  as  were  de- 
signed to  be  sung,  called  odes  ?  In  the 
ode,  therefore,  what  form  does  poetry 
retain  ?  From  this  circumstance,  what 
are  we  to  deduce  ?  By  what  is  it  not 
distinguished  from  other  kinds  of  poetry ; 
and  why  ?  What  is  the  only  distinc- 
tion which  belongs  to  it  ?  What  chiefly 
characterizes  it?  What  effect  do  music 
and  song  have  on  poetry  ?  As  on  this  is 
formed  the  peculiar  character  of  the 
ode,  what  fellows  ?  What  two  effects 
has  music  on  the  mind?  Hence,  the  ode 
may  either  aspire  to  what,  or  to  what 
may  it  descend  ?  And  between  these, 
what  is  found  ?  Under  what  four  deno- 
minations, may  all  odes  be  comprised  ? 
What  are  examples  of  each?  What 


should  be  the  reigning  character  of  the 
first  two  kinds  ?  What  should  reign  in 
the  latter  ?  From  what  does  one  of  the 
chief  difficulties  in  composing  the  ode 
arise  ?  Of  a  professed  ode,  what  is  ex- 
pected ?  Full  of  this  idea,  what  does 
the  poet  do  ?  In  either  case,  of  what  is 
he  in  great  hazard  ?  How  is  this  illus- 
trated ?  What  is  not  required ;  but  still, 
in  every  composition,  what  ought  there 
to  be  ?  Of  transitions  from  thought  to 
thought,  what  is  observed  ?  Whatever 
authority  may  be  pleaded  for  the  inco- 
herence of  lyric  poetry,  what  is  certain? 
What  increases  the  disorder  of  this  spe- 
cies of  poetry  ?  What  do  they  do  ? 
Whereas,  of  lyric  composition,  what 
remark  follows  ?  Of  what  has  Pindar 
been  the  occasion?  Of  his  genius,  his 
expressions,  and  his  descriptions,  what 
is  observed  ?  But  finding  it  a  very  bar- 
ren subject  to  sing  the  praises  of  those 
who  had  gained  the  prize  in  the  public 
games,  what  did  he  do?  Why  is  our 
pleasure  in  reading  him  much  diminish- 
ed ?  What  would  one  imagine  ?  Where 
have  we  the  same  kind  of  lyric  poetry 
as  in  Pindar  ?  Of  Horace,  as  a  writer  of 
odes,  what  is  observed  ?  From  what  has 
he  descended?  Beyond  what  does  he 
not  often  aspire  ?  What  is  the  peculiar 
character  in  which  he  excels ;  and  what 
remark  follows?  Of  him,  what  is  farther 
remarked  ?  Among  the  Latin  poets  of 
later  ages,  as  imitators  of  Horace,  who 
is  the  most  distinguished?  What  are 
the  characteristics  of  his  odes  ?  What 
is  said  of  Buchanan  ?  Among  the 
French,  whose  odes  are  justly  celebra- 
ted ?  What  is  their  character  ?  In  our 
own  language,  whose  odes  are  the  most 
distinguished ;  and  of  them,  what  is 
observed  ? 


ANALYSIS 

1.  Pastoral  Poetry. 

a.  Its  origin  and  nature. 

b.  Different  views  of  pastoral  life. 

a.  The  middle  station  to  be  observed. 

c.  The  scene. 

d.  The  characters. 

a.  Their  employments. 

e.  The  fathers  of  pastoral  poetry. 

a.  Their  respective  characteristics. 

f.  Modern  pastoral  writers. 
a.  Their  relative  merits. 

2.  Lyric  Poetry. 

a.  The  definition  and  nature  of  the  ode. 
a.  Different  kinds  of  odes. 
6.   Enthusiasm  its  chief  characteristic. 

c.  Pindar — Horace. 

d.  French  and  English  writers  of  odes, 


(  447  ) 

LECTURE  XL. 

DIDACTIC  POETRY DESCRIPTIVE  POETRY. 

Having  treated  of  pastoral  and  lyric  poetry,  I  proceed  next  a 
didactic  poetry:  under  which  is  included  a  numerous  class  of  wri- 
tings. The  ultimate  end  of  all  poetry,  indeed  of  every  compo- 
sition, should  be  to  make  some  useful  impression  on  the  mind. 
This  useful  impression  is  most  commonly  made  in  poetry,  by  in- 
direct methods;  as  by  fable,  by  narration,  by  representation  of 
characters ;  but  didactic  poetry  openly  professes  its  intention  of 
conveying  knowledge  and  instruction.  It  differs,  therefore,  in  the 
form  only,  not  in  the  scope  and  substance,  from  a  philosophical,  a 
moral,  or  a  critical  treatise  in  prose.  At  the  same  time,  by  means 
of  its  form,  it  has  several  advantages  over  prose  instruction.  By 
the  charm  of  versification  and  numbers,  it  renders  instruction  more 
agreeable;  by  the  descriptions,  episodes,  and  other  embellishments, 
which  it  may  interweave,  it  detains,  and  engages  the  fancy  .  it  fixes 
also  useful  circumstances  more  deeply  in  the  memory.  Hence,  it 
is  a  field  wherein  a  poet  may  gain  great  honour,  may  display  both 
much  genius,  and  much  knowledge  and  judgment. 

It  may  be  executed  in  different  manners.  The  poet  may  choose 
some  instructive  subject,  and  he  may  treat  it  regularly,  and  in 
form;  or,  without  intending  a  great  or  regular  work,  he  may  only 
inveigh  against  particular  vices,  or  make  some  moral  observations 
on  human  life  and  characters,  as  is  commonly  done  in  satires  and 
epistles.    All  these  come  under  the  denomination  of  didactic  poetry. 

The  highest  species  of  it,  is  a  regular  treatise  on  some  philo- 
sophical, grave,  or  useful  subject.  Of  this  nature  we  have  several, 
both  ancient  and  modern,  of  great  merit  and  character:  such  as 
Lucretius's  six  books  DeRerum  Natura,  Virgil's  Georgir.s,  Pope's 
Essay  on  Criticism,  Akenside's  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination,  Arm- 
strong on  Health,  Horace's,  Vida's,  and  Boileau's  Art  of  Poetry. 

In  all  such  works,  as  instruction  is  the  professed  object,  the  fun- 
damental merit  consists  in  sound  thought,  just  principles,  clear  and 
apt  illustrations.  The  poet  must  instruct;  but  he  must  study,  at  the 
same  v,ime,  to  enliven  his  instructions,  by  the  introduction  of  such 
figures,  and  such  circumstances,  as  may  amuse  the  imagination,  may 
conceal  the  dryness  of  his  subject,  and  embellish  it  with  poetical 
painting.  Virgil,  in  his  Georgics,  presents  us  here  with  a  perfect 
model.  He  has  the  art  of  raising  and  beautifying  the  most  trivial 
circumstances  in  rural  life.  When  he  is  going  to  say  that  the  laboui 
of  the  country  must  begin  in  spring,  he  expresses  himself  thus: 

Vere  novo,  gelidus  canis  cum  montibus  humoi 
Liqnitur,  et  Zephyro  putrh  se  gl<  bare  solvit; 


148  DIDACTIC  POETRY  [lect.  xl. 

Depresso  incipiat  jam  turn  mihi  Taurus  aratro 

Ingemere,  et  sulco  attritus  splendescere  vomer*  I.  43. 

Instead  of  telling  his  husbandman  in  plain  language,  that  his  crops 
will  tail  through  bad  management,  his  language  is, 

Heu,  magnum  alterias  frustra  specinbis  acervum, 

Concussaque  famera  in  silvis  solabere  quercu.f  I.  158. 

Instead  of  ordering  him  to  water  his  grounds,  he  presents  as  with 
a  beautiful  landscape. 

Ecce  supercilio  clivosi  tramitis  undam 

Elicit  ?  ilia  cadens,  raucum  per  la:via  murmur 

Saxa  ciet,  scattbrisque  arentia  temperat  arva.$  I.  108. 

In  all  didactic  works,  method  and  order  are  essentially  requi- 
site ;  not  so  strict  and  formal  as  in  a  prose  treatise ;  yet  such  as  may 
exhibit  clearly  to  the  reader  a  connected  train  of  instruction. — 
Of  the  didactic  poets,  whom  I  before  mentioned,  Horace,  in  his 
Art  of  Poetry,  is  the  one  most  censured  for  want  of  method.  In- 
deed, if  Horace  be  deficient  in  any  thing  throughout  many  of  his 
writings,  it  is  in  this,  of  not  being  sufficiently  attentive  to  juncture 
and  connexion  of  parts.  He  writes  always  with  ease  and  graceful 
ness ;  but  often  in  a  manner  somewhat  loose  and  rambling.  Ther^ 
is,  however,  in  that  work  much  good  sense,  and  excellent  criticism 
and,  if  it  be  considered  as  intended  for  the  regulation  of  the  Roman 
drama,  which  seems  to  have  been  the  author's  chief  purpose,  it  will 
be  found  to  be  a  more  complete  and  regular  treatise  than  under 
the  common  notion  of  its  being  a  system  of  the  whole  poetical  art 

With  regard  to  episodes  and  embellishments,  great  liberty  is  al 
lowed  to  writers  of  didactic  poetry.  We  soon  tire  of  a  continued 
series  of  instructions,  especially  in  a  poetical  work,  where  we  look 
for  entertainment.  The  great  art  of  rendering  a  didactic  poem  in- 
teresting, is  to  relieve  and  amuse  the  reader,  by  connecting  some 
agreeable  episodes  with  the  principal  subject.  These  are  always 
the  parts  of  the  work  which  are  best  known,  and  which  contribute 
most  to  support  the  reputation  of  the  poet.  The  principal  beauties 
of  Virgil's  Georgics  lie  in  digressions  of  this  kind,  in  which  the  au- 

*  While  yet  the  Spring  is  young,  while  earth  unbinds 

Her  frozen  bosom  to  the  western  winds  ; 

While  mountain  snows  dissolve  against  the  sun, 

And  streams  yet  new  from  precipices  run ; 

Ev'n  in  this  early  dawning  of  the  year, 

Produce  the  plough  and  yoke  the  sturdy  steer, 

And  goad  him  till  he  groans  beneath  his  toil, 

Till  the  bright  share  is  buried  in  the  soil.  Drydek 

t  On  others'  crops  you  may  with  envy  look, 

And  shake  for  food  the  long  abandon'd  oak.  Drydbs 

t  Behold  when  burning  suns,  or  Sinus'  beams 

Strike  fiercely  on  the  field  and  withering  stems, 

Down  from  the  summit  of  the  neighbouring  hills, 

O'er  the  smooth  stones  he  calls  the  bubbling  rills  ; 

Soon  as  he  clears  whate'er  their  passage  stay'd, 

And  marks  their  future  current  with  his  spade, 

Before  him  scattering  they  prevent  his  pains, 

And  roll  with  hollow  murmurs  o'er  the  plains.  Wartoi 


lect.  xl.]  DIDACTIC  POETRY.  449 

thor  has  exerted  all  the  force  of  his  genius ;  such  as  the  prodigies 
that  attended  the  death  of  Julius  Caesar,  the  praises  of  Italy,  the 
happiness  of  a  country  life,  the  fable  of  Aristeus,  and  the  moving 
tale  of  Orpheus  and  Eurydice.  In  like  manner  the  favourite  pas- 
sages in  Lucretius's  work,  and  which  alone  could  render  such  a  dry 
and  abstract  subject  tolerable  in  poetry,  are  the  digressions  on  the 
evils  of  superstition,  the  praise  of  Epicurus  and  his  philosophy,  the 
description  of  the  plague,  and  several  other  incidental  illustrations, 
which  arc  remarkably  elegant,  and  adorned  with  a  sweetness  and 
harmony  of  versification  peculiar  to  that  poet.  There  is,  indeed, 
nothing  in  poetry,  so  entertaining  or  descriptive,  but  what  a  didac- 
tic writer  of  genius  may  be  allowed  to  introduce  in  some  part  of  his 
work  ;  provided  always,  that  such  episodes  arise  naturally  from  the 
main  subject;  that  they  be  not  disproportioned  in  length  to  it ;  and 
that  the  author  know  how  to  descend  with  propriety  to  the  plain, 
as  well  as  how  to  rise  to  the  bold  and  figured  style. 

Much  art  may  be  shown  by  a  didactic  poet  in  connecting  his 
episodes  happily  with  his  subject.  Virgil  is  also  distinguished  for 
his  address  in  this  point.  After  seeming  to  have  left  his  husband- 
men, he  again  returns  to  them  very  naturally  by  laying  hold  of  some 
rural  circumstance,  to  terminate  his  digression.  Thus,  having 
spoken  of  the  battle  of  Pharsalia,  he  subjoins  immediately,  with 
much  art: 

Scilicet  et  tempus  veniet,  cum  finibus  illis 

Agricola,  incurvo  terrain  molitus  aratro, 

Esesa  inveniet  scabra  rubigine  pila  ; 

Aut  gravibus  rastris  galeas  pulsabit  inanes, 

Grandiaque  effossis  mirabitur  ossa  sepulcbris.*  Geo.  I.  493. 

In  English,  Dr.  Akenside  has  attempted  the  most  rich  and  poeti- 
cal form  of  didactic  writing  in  his  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination  ;  and 
though,  in  the  execution  of  the  whole,  he  is  not  equal,  he  has,  in 
several  parts,  succeeded  happily,  and  displayed  much  genius.  Dr. 
Armstrong,  in  his  Art  of  Preserving  Health,  has  not  aimed  at  so 
high  a  strain  as  the  other.  But  he  is  more  equal;  and  maintains 
throughout  a  chaste  and  correct  elegance. 

Satires  and  epistles  naturally  run  into  a  more  familiar  style,  than 
solemn  philosophical  poetry.  As  the  manners  and  characters, 
which  occur  in  ordinary  life,  are  their  subject,  they  require  being 
treated  with  somewhat  of  the  ease  and  freedom  of  conversation, 
and  hence  it  is  commonly  the  '  musa  pedestris,'  which  reigns  in 
such  compositions. 

Satire,  in  its  first  state  among  the  Romans,  had  a  form  different 
from  what  it  af'erwards  assumed.  Its  origin  is  obscure,  and  has 
given  occasion  to  altercation  among  critics.  It  seems  to  have  been 
at  first  a  relic  of  the  ancient  comedy,  written  partly  in  prose,  partiv 

*  Then,  after  length  of  time,  the  lab'ring  swains 
Who  turn  the  turf  of  these  unhappy  plains, 
Shall.rusty  arms  from  the  plough'd  furrows  take; 
And  over  empty  helmets  pass  the  rake  ; 
Amiis'd  at  antique  titles  on  the  stones, 
And  mighty  relics  of  gigantic  bones.  Drtd£»; 

3T  57 


450  DIDACTIC  POETRY.  [lect.xl 

in  verse,  and  abounding  with  scurrility.  Ennius  and  Lucilius  cor- 
rected its  grossness;  and  at  last,  Horace  brought  it  into  that  form, 
which  now  gives  the  denomination  to  satirical  writing.  Reforma- 
tion of  manners,  is  the  end  which  it  professes  to  have  in  view  ;  and 
in  order  to  this  end,  it  assumes  the  liberty  of  boldly  censuring  vice, 
and  vicious  characters.  It  has  been  carried  on  in  three  different 
manners,  by  the  three  great  ancient  satirists,  Horace,  Juvenal,  and 
Perseus.  Horace's  style  has  not  much  elevation.  He  entitles  his  sa 
tires, '  Sermones,'  and  seems  not  to  have  intended  rising  much  high- 
er th?n  prose  put  into  numbers.  His  manner  is  easy  and  graceful. 
They  are  rather  the  follies  and  weaknesses  of  mankind,  than  their 
enormous  vices,  which  he  chooses  for  the  object  of  his  satire.  He 
reproves  with  a  smiling  aspect ;  and  while  he  moralizes  like  a  sound 
philosopher,  discovers,  at  the  same  time,  the  politeness  of  a  cour- 
tier. Juvenal  is  much  more  serious  and  declamatory.  He  has 
more  strength  and  fire,  and  more  elevation  of  style,  than  Horace  ; 
but  is  greatly  inferior  to  him  in  gracefulness  and  ease.  His  satire 
is  more  zealous,  more  sharp  and  pointed,  as  being  generally  direc 
ted  against  more  flagitious  characters.  As  Scaliger  says  of  him, 
'  ardet,  instat,  jugulat ;'  whereas  Horace's  character  is,  f  admissus 
circum  prcecordia  ludit.'  Perseus  has  a  greater  resemblance  of  the 
force  and  fire  of  Juvenal,  than  of  the  politeness  of  Horace.  He  is 
distinguished  for  sentiments  of  noble  and  sublime  morality.  He  is  h 
nervous  and  lively  writer;  but  withal,  often  harsh  and  obscure. 

Poetical  epistles,  when  employed  on  moral  or  critical  subjects, 
seldom  rise  into  a  higher  strain  of  poetry  than  satires.  In  the  form 
of  an  epistle,  indeed,  many  other  subjects  may  be  handled,  and 
either  love  poetry,  or  elegiac,  may  be  carried  on  ,  as  in  Ovid's  Epis- 
tolae  Herodium,  and  his  Epistolae  de  Ponto.  Such  works  as  these 
are  designed  to  be  merely  sentimental ;  and  r.s  their  merit  consists 
in  being  proper  expressions  of  the  passion  or  sentiment  which  forms 
the  subject,  they  may  assume  any  tone  of  pi-etry  that  is  suited  to  it. 
But  didactic  epistles,  of  which  I  now  speak,  seldom  admit  of  much 
elevation.  They  are  commonly  intended  as  observations  on  authors, 
or  on  life  and  characters  ;  in  delivering  which,  the  poet  does  not 
purpose  to  compose  a  formal  treatise,  or  to  confine  himself  strictly 
to  regular  method  ;  but  gives  scope  to  his  genius  on  some  particular 
theme,  which,  at  the  time,  has  prompted  him  to  write.  In  all  didactic 
poetry  of  this  kind,  it  is  an  important  rule,'quicquid  praecipies,  esto 
brevis.'  Much  of  the  grace,  both  of  satirical  and  epistolary  writing, 
consists  in  a  spirited  conciseness.  This  gives  to  such  composition 
en  edge  and  a  liveliness,  which  strike  the  fancy,  and  keep  attention 
awake.  Much  of  their  merit  depends  also  on  just  and  hippy  re- 
presentations of  characters.  As  they  are  not  supported  by  those 
high  beauties  of  descriptive  and  poetical  language  which  adorn 
other  compositions,  we  expect,  in  return,  to  be  entertained  with 
lively  paintings  of  men  and  manners,  which  are  always  pleasing ; 
and  in  these,  a  cer'ain  sprightliness  and  turn  of  wit  finds  its  proper 
place.  The  high  ,r  species  of  poetry  seldom  admit  it;  buihere  it 
is  seasonable  and  beautiful. 


lect.  xl.]  DIDACTIC  POETRY.  4i. 

In  ali  these  respects,  Mr.  Pope's  ethical  epistles  deserve  to  be 
mentioned  with  signal  honour,  as  a  model,  next  to  perfect,  of  this 
kind  of  poetry.  Here,  perhaps,  the  strength  of  his  genius  appear- 
ed. In  the  more  sublime  parts  of  poetry,  he  is  not  so  distinguished. 
In  the  enthusiasm,  the  fire,  the  force,  and  copiousness  of  poetic 
genius,  Dryden,  though  a  much  less  correct  writer,  appears  to  have 
been  superior  to  him.  Onecan  scarcely  think  that  he  was  capable 
of  epic  or  tragic  poetry ;  but  within  a  certain  limited  region,  he  has 
been  outdone  by  no  poet.  Mistranslation  of  the  Iliad  will  remain 
a  lasting  monument  to  his  honour,  as  the  most  elegant  and  highly 
finished  translation,  that,  perhaps,  ever  was  given  of  any  poetical 
work.  That  he  was  not  incapable  of  tender  poetry,  appears  from 
the  epistle  of  Eloisa  to  Abelard,  and  from  the  verses  to  the  memory 
of  an  unfortunate  lady,  which  are  almost  his  only  sentimental  pro- 
ductions ;  and  which,  indeed,  are  excellent  in  their  kind.  But  the 
qualities  for  which  he  is  chiefly  distinguished  are,  judgment  and  wit, 
with  a  concise  and  happy  expression,  and  a  melodious  versification. 
Few  poets  ever  had  more  wit,  and  at  the  same  time  more  judgment, 
to  direct  the  proper  employment  of  that  wit.  This  renders  his 
Rape  of  the  Lock  the  greatest  masterpiece  that  perhaps  was  ever 
composed,  in  the  gay  and  sprightly  style  ;  and  in  his  serious  works, 
such  as  his  Essay  on  Man,  and  his  Ethic  Epistles,  his  wit  just  suf- 
ficiently discovers  itself  to  give  a  proper  seasoning  to  grave  reflec- 
tions. His  imitations  of  Horace  are  so  peculiarly  happy,  that  one  i& 
at  a  loss,  whether  most  to  admire  the  original  or  the  copy  ;  and  they 
are  among  the  few  imitations  extant,  that  have  all  the  grace  and 
ease  of  an  original.  His  paintings  of  characters  are  natural  and 
Hvely  in  a  high  degree  ;  and  never  was  any  writer  so  happy  in  that 
concise  spirited  style,  which  gives  animation  to  satires  and  epistles. 
We  are  never  so  sensible  of  the  good  effects  of  rhyme  in  English 
verse,  as  in  reading  these  parts  of  his  works.  We  see  it  adding  to 
the  style,  an  elevation  which  otherwise  it  could  not  have  possessed  ; 
while  at  the  same  time  he  manages  it  so  artfully,  that  it  never  ap 
pears  in  the  least  to  encumber  him  ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  serves  to 
increase  the  liveliness  of  his  manner.  He  tells  us  himself,  that  he 
could  express  moral  observations  more  concisely,  and  therefore 
more  forcibly,  in  rhyme,  than  he  could  do  in  prose. 

Among  moral  and  didactic  poets,  Dr.  Young  is  of  too  great  emi- 
nence to  be  passed  over  without  notice.  In  all  his  works,  the  marks 
of  strong  genius  appear.  His  universal  passion,  possesses  the  full 
merit  of  that  animated  conciseness  of  style,  and  lively  description  o 
characters,  which  I  mentioned  as  particularly  requisite  in  satirical 
and  didactic  compositions.  Though  his  wit  may  often  be  thought  too 
sparkling,  and  his  sentences  too  pointed,  yet  the  vivacity  of  his  fancy 
is  so  great,  as  to  entertain  every  reader.  In  his  Night  Thoughts, 
there  is  much  energy  of  expression  ;  in  the  three  first,  tnere  are  seve- 
ral pathetic  passages;  and  scattered  through  them  all,  happy  ima- 
ges and  allusions,  as  well  as  pious  reflections,  occur.  But  the  sen- 
timents arc  frequently  overstrained  and  turgid  ;  and  the  style  is  too 
harsh  and  obscure  lo  be  pleasing.     Among  French  authors,  Boileau 


452  DESCRIPTIVE  POETRY.  [lect.  xl 

has  undoubtedly  much  merit  in  didactic  poetry.  Their  later  critics 
are  unwilling  to  allow  him  any  great  share  of  original  genius,  or 
poetic  fire.*  But  his  art  of  poetry,  his  satires  and  epistles,  must 
ever  be  esteemed  eminent,  not  only  for  solid  and  judicious  thought, 
but  for  correct  and  elegant  poetical  expression,  and  fortunate  imi- 
tation of  the  ancients. 

From  didactic,  I  proceed  next  to  treat  of  descriptive  poetry, 
where  the  highest  exertions  of  genius  may  be  displayed.  By  des- 
criptive poetry,  I  do  not  mean  any  one  particular  species  or  form  of 
composition.  There  are  few  compositions  of  any  length,  that  can 
be  called  purely  descriptive,  or  wherein  the  poet  proposes  to  himself 
no  other  object,  but  merely  to  describe,  without  employing  narra- 
tion, action,  or  moral  sentiment,  as  the  groundwork  of  his  piece. 
Description  is  generally  introduced  as  an  embellishment,  rather  than 
made  the  subject  of  a  regular  work.  But  though  it  seldom  form 
a  separate  species  of  writ,ng,yetinto  every  species  of  poetical  com 
position,  pastoral,  lyric,  didactic,  epic,  and  dramatic,  it  both  enter* 
and  possesses  in  each  of  them  a  very  considerable  place ;  so  that  in 
treating  cf  poetry,  it  demands  no  small  attention. 

Description  is  the  great  test  of  a  poet's  imagination  ;  and  always 
distinguishes  an  original  from  a  second-rate  genius.  To  a  writer  of 
the  inferior  class,  nature,  when  at  any  time  he  attempts  to  describe 
it,  appears  exhausted  by  those  who  have  gone  before  him  in  the 
same  track.  He  sees  nothing  new,  or  peculiar,  in  the  object  which 
he  would  paint ;  his  conceptions  of  it  are  loose  and  vague  ;  and  his 
expressions,  of  course,  feeble  and  general.  He  gives  us  words  rather 
than  ideas  ;  we  meet  with  the  language  indeed  of  poetical  desciip- 
tion,  but  we  apprehend  the  object  described  very  indistinctly. 
Whereas,  a  true  poet  makes  us  imagine  that  we  see  it  before  our 
eyes  ;  he  catches  the  distinguishing  features;  he  gives  it  the  colours 
of  life  and  reality  :  he  places  it  in  such  a  light  that  a  painter  could 
copy  after  him.  This  happy  talen:  is  chiefly  owing  to  a  strong 
imagination,  which  first  receives  a  lively  impression  of  the  object; 
and  then,  by  employing  a  proper  selection  of  circumstances  in  de- 
scribing it,  transmits  that  impression  in  its  full  force  to  the  imagina- 
tion of  others. 

In  this  selection  of  circumstances  lies  the  great  art  of  picturesque 
description.  In  the  first  place,  they  ought  not  to  be  vulgar  and  com- 
mon ones,  such  as  are  apt  to  pass  by  without  remark;  but,  as  much 
as  possible,  new  and  original,  which  may  catch  the  fancy  and  draw 
attention.  In  the  next  place,  they  ought  to  be  such  as  particularize 
the  object  described,  and  mark  it  strongly.  No  description,  that 
rests  in  generals, can  be  good.  For  we  can  conceive  nothing  clearly 
in  the  abstract ;  all  distinct  ideas  are  formed  upon  particulars.  In 
the  third  place,  all  the  circumstances  employed  ought  to  be  uniform, 
and  of  a  piece;  that  is,  when  describing  a  great  object,  every  cir- 
cumstance brought  into  view  should  tend  to  aggrandize  ;  or,  when 
describing  a  gay  and  pleasant  one,  should  tend  to  beautify,  that  by 

*  Vid.  PoCtique  Francoise  de  Marmoutel. 


lect.  xl.]  DESCRIPTIVE  POETRY.  45b 

this  means,  the  impression  may  rest  upon  the  imagination  complete 
and  entire :  and  lastly,  the  circumstances  in  description  should  he 
expressed  with  conciseness  and  with  simplicity ;  for,  when  either  too 
much  exaggerated,  or  too  long  dwelt  upon  and  extended,  they  never 
fail  to  enfeeble  the  impression  that  is  designed  to  be  made.  Brevity, 
almost  always  contributes  to  vivacity.  These  general  rules  will  be 
best  understood  by  illustrations,  founded  on  particular  instances. 

Of  all  professed  descriptive  compositions,  the  largest  and  fullest 
tbat  I  am  acquainted  with,  in  any  language,  is  Mr.  Thomson's  Sea- 
sons; a  work  which  possesses  very  uncommon  merit.  The  style. in 
the  midst  of  much  splendour  and  strength,  is  sometimes  harsh,  and 
may  be  censured  as  deficient  in  ease  and  distinctness.  But  notwith- 
standing this  defect,  Thomson  is  a  strong  and  a  beautiful  describer; 
for  he  had  a  feeling  heart,  and  a  warm  imagination.  He  had  studied 
and  copied  nature  with  care.  Enamoured  of  her  beauties,  he  not 
only  described  them  properly,  but  felt  their  impression  with  strong 
sensibility.  The  impression  which  he  felt,  he  transmits  to  his  read- 
ers ;  and  no  person  of  taste  can  peruse  any  one  of  his  Seasons, 
without  having  the  ideas  and  feelings,  which  belong  to  that  season, 
recalled  and  rendered  present  to  his  mind.  Several  instances  of 
s^.ost  beautiful  description  might  be  given  from  him;  such  as,  the 
shower  in  Spring,  the  morning  in  Summer,  and  the  man  perishing 
s  1  snow  in  Winter.  But,  at  present,  I  shall  produce  a  passage  of 
another  kind,  to  show  the  power  of  a  single  well  chosen  circum- 
stance, to  heighten  a  description.  In  his  Summer,  relating  the 
effects  of  heat  in  the  torrid  zone,  he  is  led  to  take  notice  of  the 
pestilence  that  destroyed  the  English  fleet,  at  Carthagena,  under 
Admiral  Vernon;  when  he  has  the  following  lines  : 

-You,  gallant  Vernon,  saw 

The  miserable  scene  ;  you  pitying  saw 

To  infant  weakness  sunk  the  warrior's  arms; 

Saw  the  deep  racking  pang  ;  the  ghastly  form  ; 

The  lip  pale  quiv'ring;  and  the  beamless  eye 

No  more  with  ardour  bright ;  you  heard  the  groans 

Of  agonizing  ships  from  shore  to  shore  ; 

Heard  nightly  plunged,  amid  the  sullen  waves, 

The  frequent  corse. L.  1050. 

All  the  circumstances  here  are  properly  chosen,  for  setting  this 
dismal  scene  in  a  strong  light  before  our  eyes  But  what  is  most 
striking  in  the  picture,  is,  the  last  image.  We  are  conducted 
through  all  the  scenes  of  distress,  till  we  come  to  the  mortality 
prevailing  in  the  fleet,  which  a  vulgar  poet  would  have  described 
by  exaggerated  expressions,  concerning  the  multiplied  trophies  and 
victories  of  death.  But,  how  much  more  is  the  imagination  im- 
pressed, by  this  single  circumstance  of  dead  bodies  thrown  over- 
board every  night ;  of  the  constant  sound  of  their  falling  into  the 
waters,  and  of  the  Admiral  listening  to  this  melancholy  sound,  so 
often  striking  his  ear  ? 

Heard  nightly  plunged,  amid  the  sullen  waves, 
The  frequent  corse* 

*  The  culogium   which   Dr.  Johnson,  in  his  Lives   of  the   Poets,  gives  of  Thorn 


A54  DESCRIPTIVE  POETRY.  [lect.  xl. 

Mr.  Parnell's  tale  of  the  Hermit  is  conspicuous  throughout  the 
whok  of  it,  for  beautiful  descriptive  narration.  The  manner  of  the 
Hermit's  setting  forth  to  visit  the  world  ;  his  meeting  with  a  com- 
panion,and  the  houses  in  which  they  are  successively  entertained,  of 
the  Vnin  man,  the  covetous  man,  and  the  good  man,  are  pieces  o/ 
very  fine  painting,  touched  with  a  light  and  delicate  pencil,  ovei 
charged  with  no  superfluous  colouring,  and  conveying  to  us  a  lively 
idea  of  the  objects.  But,  of  all  the  English  poems  in  the  descrip 
tive  style,  the  richest  and  most  remarkable  are,  Milton's  Allegro 
and  Penseroso.  The  collection  of  gay  images  on  the  one  hand, 
and  of  melancholy  ones  on  the  other,  exhibited  in  these  tw> o  small, 
but  inimitably  fine  poems,  are  as  exquisite  as  can  be  conceived. 
They  are,  indeed,  the  storehouse  whence  many  succeeding  poets 
have  enriched  their  descriptions  of  similar  subjects ;  and  they 
alone  are  sufficient  for  illustrating  the  observations  which  I  made, 
concerning  the  proper  selection  of  circumstances  in  descriptive 
writing.  Take,  for  instance,  the  following  passage  from  the  Pen- 
seroso : 


-I  walk  unseen 


On  the  dry,  smooth-shaven  green, 
To  behold  the  wandering  moon, 
Riding  near  her  highest  noon  : 
Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 
Through  the  heaven's  wide  pathless  way, 
And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bow'd, 
Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 
Oft,  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground, 
I  hear  the  far-off  curfew  sound, 
Over  some  wide  watered  shore, 
Swinging  slow  with  solemn  roar  ; 
Or,  if  the  air  will  not  permit, 
Some  still  removed  place  will  fit, 
Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 
Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom  ; 
Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 
Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth, 
Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charm, 
To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm  ; 


son,  is  high,  and,  in  my  opinion,  very  just :  '  As  a  writer,  he  is  entitled  to  c.ie  praise 
of  the  highest  kind  ;  his  mode  of  thinking,  and  of  expressing  his  thoughts,  is  original 
His  blank  verse  is  no  more  the  blank  verse  of  Milton,  or  of  any  other  poet,  than  the 
rhymes  of  Prior  are  the  rhymes  of  Cowley.  His  numbers,  his  pauses,  his  diction,  are 
of  his  own  growth,  without  transcription,  without  imitation.  He  thinks  in  a  peculiar 
train,  and  he  thinks  always  as  a  man  of  genius.  He  looks  round  on  nature  and  life, 
with  the  eye  which  nature  bestows  only  on  a  poet ;  the  eye  that  distinguishes  in  everv 
thing  presented  to  its  view,  whatever  there  is  on  which  imagination  can  delight  to  be 
detained;  and  with  a  mind, that  at  once  comprehends  the  vast  and  attends  to  the 
minute.  The  reader  of  the  Seasons  wonders  that  he  never  saw  before  what  Thomson 
shows  him,  and  that  he  never  yet  has  felt  what  Thomson  impresses.  His  descriptions 
of  extended  scenes,  and  general  effects,  bring  before  us  the  whole  magnificence  of 
nature,  whether  pleasing  or  dreadful.  The  gayety  of  .spring,  the  spl<  ndour  of  summer, 
the  tranquillity  of  autumn,  and  the  horror  of  winter,  take,  in  their  turn,  possession  o» 
the  mind.  The  poet  leads  us  through  the  appearances  of  things,  as  they  are  succes- 
sively varied  by  the  vicissitudes  of  the  year,  and  imparts  to  us  so  much  of  his  own 
enthusiasm,  that  our  thoughts  expand  with  his  imagery,  and  kindle  with  his  senti- 
ments.' Tlie  censure  which  the  same  eminent  critic  passes  upon  Thomson's  diction, 
is  no  less  just  and  well  founded,  that  •  it  is  too  exuberant,  and  may  sometimes  be 
charged  with  filling  the  ear  more  than  the  mind.' 


LfiCT.  xl.]  DESCRIPTIVE  POETRY.  ASS 

Or  let  my  lamp,  at  midnight  hour, 
Be  seen,  in  some  high  lonely  tower, 
Where  I  may  outwatch  the  Bear 
With  thrice  great  Hermes,  or  unsphere 
The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 
What  worlds,  cr  what  vast  regions  hold 
Th'  immortal  mind,  that  hath  forsook 
Her  mansion  in  his  fleshly  nook  ; 
\nd  of  those  demons  that  are  found 
In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  under  ground. 

Here  there  are  no  unmeaning  general  expressions;  all  is  particu- 
lar, a!  is  picturesque;  nothing  forced  or  exaggerated ;  but  a  simple 
style,  and  a  collection  of  strong  expressive  images,  which  are  all  of 
one  eiass,  and  recal  a  number  of  similar  ideas  of  the  melancholy 
kind  particularly  the  walk  by  moon-light;  the  sound  of  the  curfew- 
bell  heard  distant;  the  dying  embers  in  the  chamber  ;  the  bellman's 
call ;  and  the  lamp  seen  at  midnight  in  the  high  lonely  tqwer.  We 
may  observe,  too,  the  conciseness  of  the  poet's  manner.  He  does 
not  rest  long  on  one  circumstance,  or  employ  a  great  many  words 
to  describe  it;  which  always  makes  the  impression  faint  and  lan- 
guid ;  but  placing  it  in  one  strong  point  of  view,  full  and  clear  before 
the  reader,  he  there  leaves  it. 

'  From  his  shield  and  his  helmet,'  says  Homer,  describing  one 
of  his  heroes  in  battle, '  From  his  shield  and  his  helmet,  there 
sparkled  an  incessant  blaze ;  like  the  autumnal  star,  when  it  appears 
in  its  brightness  from  the  waters  of  the  ocean.'  This  is  short  and 
lively  ;  but  when  it  comes  into  Mr.  Pope's  hands,  it  evaporates  in 
three  pompous  lines,  each  of  which  repeats  the  same  image  in 
different  words : 

High  on  his  helm  celestial  lightnings  play, 
His  beamy  shield  emits  a  living  ray  ; 
Th'  unwearied  blaze  incessant  streams  supplies, 
Like  the  red  star  that  fires  th'  autumnal  skies. 

It  is  to  be  observed,  in  general,  that,  in  describing  solemn  or 
great  objects,  the  concise  manner  is  almost  always  proper.  De- 
scriptions of  ga}T  and  smiling  scenes  can  bear  to  be  more  amplified 
and  prolonged,  as  strength  is  not  the  predominant  quality  expected 
in  these.  But  where  a  sublime  or  a  pathetic  impression  is  intended 
to  be  made,  energy  is  above  all  things  required.  The  imagination 
ought  then  to  be  seized  at  once ;  and  it  is  far  more  deeply  impressed 
by  one  strong  and  ardent  image,  than  by  the  anxious  minuteness 
of  laboured  illustration.  l  His  face  was  without  form,  and  dark,'' 
says  Ossian,  describing  a  ghost,  '  the  stars  dim  twinkling  through 
his  form  ;  thrice  he  sighed  over  the  hero ;  and  thrice  the  winds  e* 
the  night  roared  around.' 

It  deserves  attention, too,  that  in  describing  inanimate  natural  ob- 
jects, the  poet,  in  order  to  enliven  his  description,  ought  always  to 
mix  living  beings  with  them.  The  scenes  of  dead  and  still  life  are 
apt  to  pall  upon  us,  if  the  poet  do  not  suggest  sentiments  and  intro- 
duce life  and  action  into  his  description.  This  is  well  known  to 
>%very  painter  who  is  a  master  of  his  art.     Seldom  has  any  beautiful 


156  DESCRIPTIVE  POETRY.  [lect.  xu 

landscape  been  drawn,  without  some  human  being  represented  on 
the  canvas,  as  beholding  it,  or  on  some  account  concerned  in  it : 

Hie  gelidi  fontes,  hlc  mollia  prata.  Lycori, 

Hie  nemus,  hie  ipso  tecum  consumerer  svo.*  Eel.  x.  42. 

The  touching  part  of  these  fine  lines  of  Virgil's,  is  the  last,  which 
sets  before  us  the  interest  of  two  lovers  in  this  rural  scene.  A  long 
description  of  the  'fori  tes?  the '  nemus,'  and  the  'prata,'  in  the  most 
poetical  modern  manner,  would  have  been  insipid  without  thi.< 
stroke,  which  in  a  few  words,  brings  home  to  the  heart  all  the  beau 
ties  of  the  place  :  '  hie  ipso  tecum  consumerer  aevo.'  It  is  great 
beauty  in  Milton's  Allegro,  that  it  is  all  alive,  and. full  of  persons. 

Every  thing,  as  I  before  said,  in  description,  should  be  as  marked 
and  as  particular  as  possible,  in  order  to  imprint  on  the  mind  a  dis- 
tinct and  complete  image.  A  hill,  a  river,  or  a  lake,  rises  up  more 
conspicuous  to  the  fancy,  when  some  particular  lake,  or  river,  or 
hill,  is  specified,  than  when  the  terms  are  left  general.  Most  of  the 
ancient  writers  have  been  sensible  of  the  advantage  which  this  giv«  <> 
to  description.  Thus,  in  that  beautiful  pastoral  composition,  the 
Song  of  Solomon,  the  images  are  commonly  particularized  by  the 
objects  to  which  they  allude.  It  is  the  '  rose  of  Sharon  ;  the  lily  of 
the  vallies;  the  flock  which  feeds  on  Mount  Gilead  ;  the  stream 
which  comes  from  Mount  Lebanon.  Come  wi<h  me,  from  Leba- 
non, my  spouse  ;  look  from  the  top  of  Amana,  from  the  top  of  She 
nir  and  Hermon,  from  the  mountains  of  the  leopards.'  Chap.  iv.  8 
So  Horace: 

Quid  dedicatum  poscit  Apollinem 
Vates  ?  quid  orat  de  patera  novun» 

Fundens  liquorem  ?  non  opimas 
Sardinian  segetes  faracis ; 
Non  ssiuoss  grata  Calabria? 
Armenia ;  non  aurum  aut  ebur  Indicum 

Non  rura,  qua?  Liris  quieta 

Mordet  aqua,  taciturnus  amnis.t  Lib.  I.  Ode  31.  I. 

Both  Homer  and  Virgil  are  remarkable  for  the  talent  of  poetical 
description.  In  Virgil's  second  iEneid,  where  he  describes  the  bur- 
ning and  sacking  of  Troy,  the  particulars  are  so  well  selected  and  re- 
presented, that  the  reader  finds  himself  in  the  midst  of  that  scene  of 

*  Here  cooling  fountains  roll  through  flow'ry  meads,. 
Here  woods,  Lycoris,  lift  their  verdant  heads, 
Here  could  I  wear  my  careless  life  away, 
And  in  thy  arms  insensibly  decay.  Wartos. 

f  When  at  Apollo's  hallowed  shrtne 
The  poet  hails  the  power  divine, 
And  here  his  first  libation  pours, 
What  is  the  blessing  he  implores  ? 
He  nor  desires  the  swelling  grain, 
That  yellows  o'er  Sardinia's  plain, 
Nor  the  fair  herds,  that,  lowing,  feed 
On  warm  Calabria's  flowery  mead ; 
Nor  ivory  of  spotless  shine  ; 
Nor  gold  forth  flaming  from  the  mine  J 
Nor  the  rich  fields  that  Liris  laves, 
And  eats  away  with  silent  waves  FllAXCtS. 


lect.  xl.]  DESCRIPTIVE  POETRY.  457 

horror.  The  death  of  Priam,  especially,  may  be  singled  out  as  a 
masterpiece  of  description.  All  the  circumstances  of  the  aged  mon- 
arch arraying  himself  in  armour,  when  he  finds  the  enemy  making 
themselves  masters  of  the  city;  his  meeting  with  his  family,  who 
are  taking  shelter  at  an  altar  in  the  court  of  the  palace,  and  theii 
placing  him  in  the  midst  of  them  ;  his  indignation  when  he  beholds 
Pyrrhus  slaughtering  one  of  his  sons;  the  feeble  dart  which  he 
ihrows ;  with  Pyrrhus's  brutal  behaviour,  and  his  manner  of  putting 
the  old  man  to  death,  are  painted  in  the  most  affecting  manner,  and 
with  a  masterly  hand.  All  Homer's  battles,  and  Milton's  account, 
both  of  Paradise  and  of  the  infernal  regions,  furnish  many  beautiful 
instances  of  poetical  description.  Ossian,  too,  paints  in  strong  and 
lively  colours,  though  he  employs  few  circumstances;  and  his  chief 
excellency  lies  in  painting  to  the  heart.  One  of  his  fullest  descrip- 
tions is  the  following  of  the  ruins  of  Balclutha ;  '  I  have  seen  the 
walls  of  Balclutha,  but  they  were  desolate.  The  fire  had  resounded 
within  the  halls;  and  the  voice  of  the  people  is  now  heard  no  more. 
The  stream  of  Clutha  was  removed  from  its  place,  by  the  fali  of  the 
walls;  the  thistle  shook  there  its  lonely  head;  the  moss  whistled  to 
the  wind.  The  fox  looked  out  at  the  window ;  the  rank  grass  waved 
round  his  head.  Desolate  is  the  dwelling  of  Moina.  Silence  is  in 
the  house  of  her  fathers.'  Shakspeare  cannot  be  omitted  on  this 
occasion,  as  singularly  eminent  for  painting  with  the  pencil  of  nature. 
Though  it  be  in  manners  and  characters,  that  his  chief  excellency 
lies,  yet  his  scenery  also  is  often  exquisite,  and  happily  described  by 
a  single  stroke  ;  as  in  that  fine  line  of  the  '  Merchant  of  Venice/ 
which  conveys  to  the  fancy  as  natural  and  beautiful  an  image,  as  can 
possibly  be  exhibited  in  so  few  words: 

How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank! 
Here  will  we  sit,  Sic. 

Much  of  the  beauty  of  descriptive  poetry  depends  upon  a  right 
choice  of  epithets.  Many  poets,  it  must  be  confessed,  are  too  care- 
less in  this  particular.  Epithets  are  frequently  brought  in  merely  to 
complete  the  verse,  or  make  the  rhyme  answer  ;  and  hence  they  are 
so  unmeaning  and  redundant,  expletive  words  only,  which  in  place 
of  adding  any  thing  to  the  description,  clog  and  enervate  it.  Virgil's 
'  Liquidi  fontes,'  and  Horace's  <  Prata  canis  albicant  pruinis,'  must, 
I  am  afraid,  be  assigned  to  this  class :  for,  to  denote  by  an  epithet 
that  water  is  liquid,  or  that  snow  is  white,  is  no  better  than  mere 
tautology.  Every  epithet  should  either  add  a  new  idea  to  the  word 
which  it  qualifies,  or  at  least  serve  to  raise  and  heighten  its  known 
signification.     So  in  Milton, 

Who  shall  tempt  with  wand'ring  feet 
The  dark,  unbottom'd,  infinite  abyss, 
And  through  the  palpable  obscure,  find  out 
His  uncouth  way?  or  spread  his  airy  flight, 
Upborne  with  in  jefatigable  wings, 
Over  the  vast  abrupt  ?  B.  II. 

The  epithets  employed  here  plainly  add  strength  to  the  description, 
and  assist  the  fancy  in  conceiving  it ; — the  wandering  feet —the  un- 
3  U  58 


458  DESCRIPTIVE  POETRY.  [lect.  xl 

bottomed  abyss — the  palpable  obscure — the  uncouth  way — the  in 
defatigable  wing — serve  to  render  the  images  more  complete  and 
distinct.  But  there  are  many  general  epithets,  which,  though  they 
appear  to  raise  the  signification  of  the  word  to  which  they  are  join- 
ed, yet  leave  it  so  undetermined,  and  are  now  become  so  trite  and 
beaten  in  poetical  language,  as  to  be  perfectly  insipid.  Of  this  kind 
are  '  barbarous  discord — hateful  envy — mighty  chiefs — bloody  war 
•  -gloomy  shades — direful  scenes/  and  a  thousand  more  of  the  same 
kind  which  we  meet  with  occasionally  in  good  poets ;  but  with  which, 
poets  of  inferior  genius  abound  every  where,  as  the  great  props  ol 
their  affected  sublimity.  They  give  a  sort  of  swell  to  the  language, 
and  raise  it  above  the  tone  of  prose;  but  they  serve  not  in  the  least  to 
illustrate  the  object  described  ;  on  the  contrary,  they  load  the  style 
with  a  languid  verbosity. 

Sometimes  it  is  in  the  power  of  a  poet  of  genius,  by  one  well- 
chosen  epithet,  to  accomplish  a  description,  and  by  means  of  a 
single  word,  to  paint  a  whole  scene  to  the  fancy.  We  may  remark 
this  effect  of  an  epithet  in  the  following  fine  lines  of  Milton's  Ly  cidas : 

Where  were  ye,  Nymphs,  when  the  remorseless  deep 

Clos'd  o'er  the  head  of  your  Jov'd  Lycidas? 

For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep, 

Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids  lie, 

Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high, 

Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream. 

Among  these  wild  scenes,  'Deva's  wizard  stream'  is  admirably 
imaged ;  by  this  one  word,  presenting  to  the  fancy  all  the  romantic 
ideas,  of  a  river  flowing  through  a  desolate  country,  with  banks  haunt- 
ed by  wizards  and  enchanters.  Akin  to  this  is  an  epithet  which 
Horace  gives  to  the  river  Hydaspes.  A  good  man,  says  he,  stands 
in  need  of  no  arms, 

Sive  per  Syrtes  iter  aestuosas, 
Sive  facturus  per  inhospitalem 
Caucasum,  ve!  qua?  loca  fabulosus 

Lambit  Hydaspes*  I.od.  22.5. 

This  epithet  'fabulosus,'  one  of  the  commentators  on  Horace  has 
changed  into  'sabulosus,'  or 'sandy  ;'  substituting,  by  a  strange  want 
of  taste,  the  common  and  trivial  epithet  of '  the  sandy  river,'  in  place 
of  that  beautiful  picture  which  the  poet  gives  us,  by  calling  Hydaspes 
'  the  romantic  river,'  or  the  scene  of  adventures  and  poetic  tales. 

Virgil  has  employed  an  epithet  with  great  beauty  and  propriety, 
when  accounting  for  Daedalus  not  having  engraved  the  fortune  of  his 
son  Icarus: 

Bis  conatus  erat  casus  effingere  in  auro  ; 

Bis  patriae  ceodere  manus.t  JEn.  vi.  32. 

*  Whether  through  Lybia's  burning  sands 
Our  journey  leads,  or  Scythia's  lauds, 
Amidst  th'  unhospitable  waste  of  snows, 

Or  where  the  fabulous  Hydaspes  flows.  Francis. 

t  Here  hapless  Icarus  had  found  his  part, 
Had  not  the  father's  grief  restrain'd  his  art : 
He  twice  essay'd  to  cast  his  son  in  gold, 

Twice  from  his  hand  he  dropp'd  the  forming  mould.  Dryden'. 

In  this  translation  the  thought  is  justly  given ;  but  the  beauty  of  the  expression  '  patria 
roanus,' which  in  the  original  conveys  the  thought  with  so  much  tenderness,  is  lost 


LECT.  XL.] 


QUESTIONS. 


45y 


These  instances  and  observations  may  give  some  just  idea  of  true 
poetical  description.  We  have  reason  always  to  distrust  an  author's 
descriptive  talents,  when  we  find  him  laborious  and  turgid,  amassing 
common  place  epithets  and  general  expressions,  to  work  up  a  high 
conception  of  some  object,  of  which,  after  all,  we  can  form  but  an 
indistinct  idea.  The  best  describers  are  simple  and  concise.  They 
set  before  us  such  features  of  an  object,  as,  on  the  first  view,  strike 
and  warm  the  fancy ;  they  give  us  ideas  which  a  statuary  or  a 
painter  could  lay  hold  of,  and  work  after  them  ;  which  is  one  of  the 
strongest  and  most  decisive  trials  of  real  merit  of  description. 


QUESTIONS. 


Having  treated  of  pastoral  and  lyric 
poetry,  to  what  does  our  author  pro- 
ceed ;  and  under  it,  what  is  included  ? 
What  should  be  the  ultimate  end  of 
compositions  of  every  kind  ?  In  what 
manner  is  this  useful  impression,  in 
poetry,  most  commonly  made  ?  From 
what,  therefore,  does  it,  in  form  only, 
differ  ?  At  the  same  time,  by  means  of 
its  form,  what  advantages  has  it  over 
prose  instruction ;  and  hence,  what 
follows  ?  In  what  different  ways  may  it 
be  executed  ?  All  these  come  under 
what  denomination  ?  What  is  the  high- 
est species  of  it  ?  Of  this  nature,  what 
poems  have  we  ?  In  all  such  works,  as 
instruction  is  the  professed  object,  in 
what  does  the  fundamental  merit  con- 
sist? While  the  poet  must  instruct, 
what  must  he,  at  the  same  time,  stu- 
dy ?  Where  do  we  find  a  perfect  model 
of  this ;  and  what  art  does  he  possess  ? 
By  what  passage  is  this  remark  illus- 
trated ?  Instead  of  telling  his  husband- 
man, in  plain  language,  that  his  crops 
will  fail  through  bad  management, 
what  is  his  language?  Instead  of  or- 
dering him  to  water  his  grounds,  with 
what  does  he  present  us  ?  Repeat  the 
passage.  In  all  didactic  works,  what 
ar^.  essentially  requisite  ?  Of  Horace's 
Art  of  Poetry,  what  is  remarked;  and 
of  him,  what  is  farther  observed? 
What,  however,  does  that  work  con- 
tain? How  should  it  be  considered; 
and  of  it,  what  is  then  observed  ?  With 
regard  to  episodes  and  embellishments, 
what  is  remarked ;  and  why  ?  What 
is  the  great  art  of  rendering  a  didactic 
poem  interesting?  Of  these,  what  is 
observed?    From    Virgil's     Georgics, 


what  beauties  of  this  kind  are  men- 
tioned ?  What  other  passages  are  also 
mentioned ;  and  of  them,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  By  what  remark  are  these  il- 
lustrations followed  ?  In  what,  by  a 
didactic  poet,  may  much  art  be  shown? 
What  instance  have  we  of  Virgil's  ad- 
dress in  this  point  ?  Of  Dr.  Akenside's 
Pleasures  of  the  Imagination,  what  is 
remarked ;  and  also  of  Dr.  Armstrong, 
in  his  Art  of  Preserving  Health  ?  Into 
what  style  do  satires  and  epistles  na- 
turally run?  As  the  manners  and  cha- 
racters, which  occur  in  ordinary  life, 
are  their  subject,  what  follows  ?  Of  sa- 
tire, in  its  early  state,  what  is  observed  ? 
Who  corrected  itsgrossness;  and  what 
was  done  by  Horace?  What  end  does 
it  profess  to  have  in  view ;  and  in  order 
to  this  end,  what  does  it  assume  ?  In 
how  many  different  ways,  and  by 
whom,  has  it  been  carried  on?  In 
what  manner  does  Horace  conduct  it  ? 
Of  Juvenal's  manner,  what  is  obser- 
ved ?  Which  does  Perseus  resemble ; 
and  for  what  is  he  distinguished  ?  Of 
poetical  epistles,  when  employed  on 
moral  or  critical  subjects,  what  is  ob- 
served? In  the  form  of  an  epistle,  how- 
ever, what  may  be  done ;  and  what  in- 
stances are  given  ?  For  what  are  such 
works  as  these  designed ;  and  what 
follows?  But  of  didactic  epistles,  what 
is  observed  ?  In  all  didactic  poetry  of 
this  kind,  what  is  an  important  rule  ? 
In  what  does  much  of  their  grace  con- 
sist ;  and  what  does  this  give  to  such 
compositions?  On  what,  also,  does 
much  of  their  merit  depend  ?  How  is 
this  illustrated  ?  Of  Mr.  Pope's  ethical 
epistles,  what  is  observed  ?  Here,  what 


*59  a 


QUESTIONS. 


[LECT.  XL 


is  further  observed  of  him,  and  also  of 
Dryden  ?  Of  what  would  one  scarcely 
think  him  capable ;  but  what  remark 
follows?  Of  his  translation  of  the  Iliad, 
what  is  observed  ?  From  what  does  it 
appear  that  he  was  capable  of  tender 
poetry  ?  But  what  are  the  qualities  for 
which  he  is  chiefly  distinguished  ?  How 
is  this  remark  illustrated  ?  What  is  the 
character  of  his  imitations  of  Horace  ? 
Of  his  paintings  of  characters,  what  is 
observed  ?  What  idea  do  these  parts  of 
his  works  give  us  of  the  effect  of  rhyme  ? 
What  does  he  himself  tell  us?  Among 
moral  and  didactic  poets,  who  must 
not  be  passed  over  in  silence  ?  What 
appears  in  all  his  works?  Of  his  Uni- 
versal Passion,  what  is  observed? 
Though  his  wit  may  often  be  too 
sparkling,  yet,  what  follows  ?  Of  his 
Night  Thoughts,  what  is  observed  ? 
Among  French  authors,  who  has  much 
merit  in  didactic  poetry  ?  Of  his  art  of 
poetry,  his  satires,  and  his  epistles,  what 
is  observed  ? ' 

From  didactic,  to  what  does  our  au- 
thor next  proceed  ?  By  descriptive  poe- 
try, what  is  not  meant;  and  why? 
For  what  purpose  is  description  gene- 
rally introduced  ?  But  why  does  it  de- 
mand no  small  attention  ?  Of  what  is 
description  the  great,  test;  and  what 
does  it  always  distinguish  ?  How  is 
this  remark  fully  illustrated  ?  To  what 
is  this  happy  talent  chiefly  owing?  In 
what  lies  the  great  art  of  picturesque 
description  ?  That  these  may  be  right- 
ly selected,  what  general  directions  are 
given  ?  How  will  these  general  rules 
be  best  understood  ?  Which  is  the  lar- 
gest and  fullest  professed  descriptive 
composition  in  any  language ;  and  of  it, 
what  is  observed  ?  What  is  its  style  ? 
Notwithstanding  this  defect,  of  him, 
what  is  observed  ?  What  had  he  stu- 
died and  copied ;  and  being  enamour- 
ed of  her  beauties,  what  was  the  con- 
sequence? Transmitting  the  impres- 
sion which  he  felt  to  his  readers,  what 
follows  ?  What  instances  of  beautiful 
description  might  be  given;  but  what 
one  only  is  produced  ?  Repeat  it.  Of 
this  passage,  what  is  remarked  ?  Re- 
peat the  eulogium  which  Dr.  Johnson 
gives  of  Thompson.  What  is  said  of 
Mr.  Parrel's  tale  of  the  Hermit?  In  it, 
what  are  pieces  of  very  fine  painting ; 
and  of  them,  what  is  observed  ?  But  of 


all  the  English  poems  in  the  descri|>- 
tive  style,  what  are  the  richest  and 
most  remarkable?  Of  these  two  poems, 
what  is  farther  observed  ?  Repeat  the 
passage  here  introduced  from  the  Pen- 
seroso.  On  this  passage,  what  remarks 
are  mado?  What  says  Homer,  de- 
scribing one  of  his  heroes  in  battle  ?  Of 
this  passage,  what  is  observed  ?  Into 
what  does  it  evaporate,  when  it  cornea 
into  the  hands  of  Pope  ?  Repeat  Mr. 
Pope's  translation.  What  is  to  be  ob- 
served ?  What  can  bear  to  be  more 
amplified  and  prolonged;  and  why? 
But  where  a  sublime  or  pathetic  im- 
pression is  intended  to  be  made,  what, 
above  all  tilings,  is  required  ;  and  for 
what  reason  ?  Repeat  Ossian's  descrip- 
tion of  a  ghost.  What,  also,  deserves 
attention?  Why  should  this  be  done  ? 
To  whom  is  this  well  known  ;  and 
what  remark  follows?  What  illustra- 
tive example  is  given  ?  Of  these  five 
lines,  what  is  remarked  ?  What  is  a 
great  beauty  in  Milton's  Allegro? 
Why  should  every  thing  in  descrip- 
tion be  as  marked  and  as  particular  as 
possible  ?  What  illustration  of  this  re- 
mark is  given?  What  writers  were 
sensible  of  this ;  and  of  this,  what  in- 
stance is  given  ?  What  passage  is  also 
introduced  from  Horace,  illustrative  of 
the  same  remark?  What  evidence 
have  we  that  both  Homer  and  Virgil 
are  remarkable  for  the  talent  of  poeti- 
cal description?  What  furnish  many 
beautiful  instances  of  poetical  descrip- 
tion? Of  Ossian,  what  is  obser/ed? 
W'hat  passage  is  introduced  as  one  of 
his  fullest  descriptions  ?  Of  Shakspeare 
as  a  descriptive  poet,  what  is  observed  : 
and  what  instance  is  given  ?  Upon 
what  does  much  of  the  beauty  of  de- 
scriptive poetry  depend  ?  On  this  parti- 
cular, what  remarks  are  made  ?  What 
poems  of  Virgil,  and  of  Horace,  must 
be  assigned  to  this  class;  and  why? 
What  should  every  epithet  do  ?  To  il- 
lustrate this,  what  example  is  given 
from  Milton  ?  Of  the  epithets  here  em- 
ployed, what  is  observed  ?  How  is  this 
illustrated?  But,  of  what  kind  are 
there  many  epithets?  Of  this  kind, 
what  instances  are  given  ?  What  do 
they  give  to  the  language  ;  but  what 
is  their  effect  ?  What  is,  sometimes,  m 
the  power  of  a  poet  of  genius?  In  whai 
lines    may    we   remark    this    effect  i 


LECT.  XLI.] 


QUESTIONS. 


459  b 


Among  these  wild  scenes,  what  is  ad- 
mirably imagined ;  and  by  this  one 
word,  presenting  what?  Akin  to  this, 
is  what  epithet1?  What,  does  he  say? 
Repeat  the  passage.  What  comment 
has  been  made  on  this  passage  ?  In  ac- 
counting for  what,  has  Virgil  employ- 
ed an  epithet  with  great  beauty  and 
propriety?  Repeat  the  passage.  Of 
what  may  these  instances  and  obser- 
vations «give  some  just  idea  ?  When 
have  Ave  reason  to  distrust  an  author's 
descriptive  talents?  Of  the  best  de- 
scriptions, what  is  observed?  What 
features  of  an  object  do  they  set  before 
us,  and  what  do  they  give  us? 


ANALYSIS. 

1.  Didactic  poetry. 

a.  The  maimer  of  its  execution. 

b.  Method  and  order  essential. 

c.  Episodes  and  embellishments. 

d.  Satirical  poems. 

e.  Poetical  epistles. 

f.  Didactic  writers  of  eminence. 

2.  Descriptive  poetry. 

a.  Description  the  test  cf  a  poet's  imap 
ginaticn. 

o.  The  selection  of  circumstances. 

b.  The  character  of  Thompson's  Sea- 
sons. 

c.  ParneU,    Milton,    &c.    descriptive 
poets. 

d.  Homer,  Virgil,  &c.  descriptive  poets. 

a.  A  proper  choice  of  epithets  o£ 
great  importance. 


LECTURE   XLI. 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  HEBREWS. 

Among  the  various  kinds  of  poetry  which  we  are,  at  present,  em- 
ployed in  examining,  the  ancient  Hebrew  poetry,  or  that  of  the 
Scriptures,  justly  deserves  a  place.  Viewing  these  sacred  books  in 
no  higher  light,  than  as  they  present  to  us  the  most  ancient  monu- 
ments of  poetry  extant,  at  this  day,  in  the  world,  they  afford  a  cu- 
rious object  of  criticism.  They  display  the  taste  of  a  remote  age 
and  country.  They  exhibit  a  species  of  composition,  very  different 
from  any  other  with  which  we  are  acquainted,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
beautiful.  Considered  as  inspired  writings,  they  give  rise  to  discus- 
sions of  another  kind.  But  it  is  our  business,  at  present,  to  consider 
them  net  in  a  theological,  but  in  a  critical  view  :  and  it  must  needi 
give  pleasure,  if  we  shall  find  the  beauty  and  dignity  of  the  composi 
tion,  adequate  to  the  weight  and  importance  of  the  matter.  Dr. 
Lowth's  learned  treatise,  '  De  Sacra  Poesi  Hebraeorum,'  ought  to  be 
perused  by  all  who  desire  to  become  thoroughly  acquainted  with  this 
subject.  It  is  a  work  exceedingly  valuable,  both  for  the  elegance 
of  its  composition,  and  for  the  justness  of  the  criticism  which  it  con- 
tains. In  this  lecture,  as  I  cannot  illustrate  the  subject  with  more 
benefit  to  the  reader,  than  by  following  the  track  of  that  ingenious 
author,  I  shall  make  much  use  of  his  observations. 

I  need  not  spend  many  words  in  showing,  that  among  the  books  of 
the  Old  Testament,  there  is  such  an  apparent  diversity  in  style,  as 
sufficiently  discovers,  which  of  them  are  to  be  considered  as  poetical, 
and  which  as  prose  compositions.  Wrhile  the  historical  books,  and 
legislative  writings  of  Moses,  are  evidently  prosaic  in  the  composi- 
tion, the  book  of  Job,  the  Psalms  of  David,  the  Song  of  Solomon,  the 
Lamentations  of  Jeremiah,  a  great  part  of  t'he  prophetical  writings,  and 
several  passages  scattered  occasionally  through  the  historical  books, 
rarry  the  most  plain  and  distinguishing  marks  of  poetical  writing. 
There  is  not  the  least  reason  for  doubting,  that  originally  these 


460  THE  POETRY  OF  THE  HEBREWS,     [lf.ct.  xli. 

were  written  in  verse,  or  some  kind  of  measured  numbers ;  though, 
as  the  ancient  pronunciation  of  the  Hebrew  language  is  now  lost,  we 
are  not  able  to  ascertain  the  nature  of  the  Hebrew  verse,  or  at  most 
can  ascertain  it  but  imperfectly.  Concerning  this  point  there  have 
been  great  controversiesamonglearned  men,  which  it  is  unnecessary 
to  our  present  purpose  to  discuss.  Taking  the  Old  Testament  in  our 
own  translation,  which  is  extremely  literal,  we  find  plain  marks  of  m  a- 
ny  parts  of  the  original  being  written  in  a  measured  style;  and  the 
'disjecti  membra  poetae,'  often  show  themselves.  Let  any  person 
read  the  historical  introduction  to  the  book  of  Job,  contained  in  the 
first  and  second  chapters,  and  then  go  on  to  Job's  speech  in  the  be- 
ginning of  the  third  chapter,  and  he  cannot  avoid  being  sensible,  that 
he  passes  all  at  once  from  the  region  of  prose  to  that  of  poetry.  Not 
only  the  poetical  sentiments  and  the  figured  style,  warn  him  of  the 
change ;  but  the  cadence  of  the  sentence,  and  the  arrangement  of 
the  words, are  sensibly  altered;  the  change  is  as  great  as  when  he 
passes  from  reading  Caesar's  Commentaries,  to  read  Virgil's  ^Eneid. 
This  is  sufficient  to  show  that  the  sacred  Scriptures  contain  what 
must  be  called  poetry  in  the  strictest  sense  of  that  word  ;  and  I  shall 
afterwards  show,  that  they  contain  instances  of  most  of  the  different 
forms  of  poetical  writing.  It  may  be  proper  to  remark  in  passing, 
that  hence  arises  a  most  invincible  argument  in  honour  of  poetry. 
No  person  can  imagine  that  to  be  a  frivolous  and  contemptible  art, 
which  has  been  employed  by  writersunderdivineinspiration,  and  has 
been  chosen  as  a  proper  channel  for  conveying  to  the  world  the 
knowledge  of  divine  truth. 

From  the  earliest  times,  music  and  poetry  were  cultivated  among 
the  Hebrews.  In  the  days  of  the  judges,  mention  is  made  of  the 
schools  or  colleges  of  the  prophets  ;  where  one  part  of  the  employ- 
ment of  the  persons  trained  in  such  schools  was,  to  sing  the  praises 
of  God,  accompanied  with  various  instruments.  In  the  first  book  of 
Samuel,  (chap.  x.  7.)  we  find,  on  a  public  occasion,  a  company  of 
these  prophets  coming  down  from  the  hill  where  their  school  was, 
'  prophesying/  it  is  said,  '  with  the  psaltery,  tabret,  and  harp,before 
them.'  But  in  the  days  of  king  David,  music  and  poetry  were  carried 
to  their  greatest  height.  For  the  service  of  the  tabernacle,  he  appoint- 
ed four  thousand  Levites,  divided  into  twenty-four  courses,  and  mar- 
shalled under  several  leaders,  whose  sole  business  il  was  to  sing 
hymns,  and  to  perform  the  instrumental  music  in  the  public  worship. 
Asanh,  lleman,and  Jeduthun,  were  the  chief  directors  of  the  music; 
and  from  the  titles  of  some  psalms,  it  would  appear  that  they  were 
also  eminent  composers  of  hymns  or  sacred  poems.  In  chapter  xxv. 
of  the  Qr«t  book  of  Chronicles,  an  account  is  given  oi'David's  insti- 
tutions, relating  to  the  sacred  music  and  poetry ;  which  were  cer- 
tainly more  costly,  more  splendid  and  magnificent,  than  ever  obtain- 
ed in  the  public  service  cf  any  other  nation. 

The  general  construction  of  the  Hebrew  poetry  is  of  a  singular 
nature,  and  peculiar  to  itself.  It  consists  in  dividing  every  period 
into  correspondent,  for  the  most  part  into  equal  members,  which 
answer  to  one  another,  both  in  sense  and  sound.     In  the  first  mem- 


lect.  xli.]     THE  POETRY  OF  THE  HEBREWS.  461 

ber  of  the  period  a  sentiment  is  expressed ;  and  in  the  second  mem- 
ber, the  same  sentiment  is  amplified,  or  is  repeated  in  different 
terms,  or  sometimes  contrasted  with  its  opposite;  but  in  such  a 
manner  that  the  same  structure,  and  nearly  the  same  number  of 
words,  Is  preserved.  This  is  the  general  strain  of  all  the  Hebrew 
poetry.  Instances  of  it  occur  every  where  on  opening  the  Old 
Testament.  Thus,  in  Psalm  xcvi.  '  Sing  unto  the  Lord  a  new  song 
— sing  unto  the  Lord  all  the  earth.  Sing  unto  the  Lord,  and  bless 
his  name — show  forth  his  salvation  from  day  to  day.  Declare  his 
glory  among  the  heathen — his  wonders  among  all  the  people.  For 
the  Lord  is  great,  and  greatly  to  be  praised — he  is  to  be  feared 
above  all  the  gods.  Honour  and  majesty  are  before  him — strength 
and  beauty  are  in  his  sanctuary.'  It  is  owing,  in  a  great  measure, 
to  this  form  of  composition,  that  our  version,  though  in  prose,  retains 
so  much  of  a  poetical  cast.  For  the  version  being  strictly  word 
for  word  after  the  original,  the  form  and  order  of  the  original  sen- 
tence are  preserved  ;  which,  by  this  artificial  structure,  this  regular 
alternation  and  correspondence  of  parts,  makes  the  ear  sensible  of 
a  departure  from  the  common  style  and  tone  of  prose. 

The  origin  of  this  form  of  poetical  composition  among  the  Pie- 
brews,  is  clearly  to  be  deduced  from  the  manner  in  which  their 
sacred  hymns  were  wont  to  be  sung.  They  were  accompanied 
with  music,  and  they  were  performed  by  choirs  ^r  bands  of  singers 
and  musicians,  who  answered  alternately  to  each  jther.  When,  for 
instance,  one  band  began  the  hymn  thus:  '  The  Lord  reigneth,  let 
the  earth  rejoice ;'  the  chorus,  or  semi-chorus,  took  up  the  corres- 
ponding versicle;  'Let  the  multitude  of  the  isles  be  glad  thereof.' 
— '  Clouds  and  darkness  are  around  about  him/  sung  the  one;  the 
other  replied, 'Judgment  and  righteousness  are  the  habitation  of 
his  throne.'  And  in  this  manner  their  poetry,  when  set  to  music, 
naturally  divided  itself  into  a  succession  of  strophes  and  antistrophes 
correspondent  to  each  other;  whence,  it  is  probable,  the  antiphon, 
or  responsory,  in  the  public  religious  service  of  so  many  christian 
churches,  derived  its  origin. 

We  are  expressly  told,  in  the  book  of  Ezra,  that  the  Levites  sung 
in  this  manner;  'Alternating' or  by  course;  (Ezra  iii.  11.)  and 
some  of  David's  Psalms  bear  plain  marks  of  their  being  composed 
In  order  to  be  thus  performed.  The  24th  Psalm,  in  particular, 
which  is  thought  to  have  been  composed  on  the  great  and  solemn 
occasion  of  the  ark  of  the  covenant  being  brought  back  to  Mount 
Zion,  must  have  had  a  noble  effect  when  performed  after  this  man- 
ner, as  Dr.  Lowth  has  illustrated  it.  The  whole  people  are  supposed 
to  be  attending  the  procession.  The  Levites  and  singers,  divided 
into  their  several  courses,  and  accompanied  with  all  their  musical 
instruments,  led  the  way.  After  the  introduction  to  the  Psalm,  in 
the  two  first  verses,  when  the  precession  begins  to  ascend  the  sacred 
mount,  the  question  is  put,  as  by  a  semi-chorus  :  'Who  shall  ascend 
unto  the  hill  of  the  Lord,  and  who  shall  stand  in  his  holy  place?' 
The  response  is  made  by  the  full  chorus  with  the  greatest  dignity  . 
'  He  that  hath  clean  hands  and  a  pure  heart;  who  hath  not  lifted 


462  THE  POETRY  OF  THE  HEBREWS,     [lect.  xli. 

up  his  soul  to  vanity,  nor  sworn  deceitfully.'  As  the  procession 
approaches  to  the  doors  of  the  tabernacle,  the  chorus,  with  all  their 
instruments,  join  in  this  exclamation:  'Lift  up  your  heads,  ye 
gatp«,  and  be  ye  lifted  up,  ye  everlasting  doors,  and  the  King  of 
Glory  shall  come  in.'  Here  the  send-chorus  plainly  breaks  in,  as 
with  a  lower  voice,  '  Who  is  this  King  of  Glory  ?'  and  at  the  mo- 
ment when  the  ark  is  introduced  into  the  tabernacle,  the  response 
is  made  by  the  burst  of  the  whole  chorus:  '  The  Lord,  strong  and 
mighty;  the  Lord,  mighty  in  battle.'  I  take  notice  ot  this  instance 
the  rather,  as  it  serves  to  show  how  much  the  grace  and  magnifi- 
cence of  the  sacred  poems,  as  indeed  of  all  poems,  depends  upon 
our  knowing  the  particular  occasions  for  which  they  were  composed, 
and  the  particular  circumstances  to  which  they  were  adapted  ;  and 
how  much  of  this  beauty  must  now  be  lost  to  us,  through  our  im- 
perfect acquaintance  with  many  particulars  of  the  Hebrew  history 
and  Hebrew  rites. 

The  method  of  composition  which  has  been  explained,  by  cor- 
responding versicles,  being  universally  introduced  into  the  hymns 
or  musical  poetry  of  the  Jews,  easily  spread  itself  through  their  other 
poetical  writings,  which  were  not  designed  to  be  sung  in  alternate 
portions,  and  which  therefore  did  not  so  much  require  this  mode 
of  composition.  But  the  mode  became  familiar  to  their  ears,  and 
carried  with  it  a  certain  solemn  majesty  of  style,  particularly  suited 
to  sacred  subjects.  Hence, throughout  the  prophetical  writings,  we 
find  it  prevailing  as  much  as  in  the  Psalms  of  David;  as,  for  in- 
stance, in  the  prophet  Isaiah  :  (chap.  lx.  1.)  '  Arise,  shine,  for  thy 
light  is  come,  and  the  glory  of  the  Lord  is  risen  upon  thee  :  for  lo ! 
darkness  shall  cover  the  earth, — and  gross  darkness  the  people.  But 
the  Lord  shall  rise  upon  thee,  and  his  glory  shall  be  seen  upon  thee, 
and  the  Gentiles  shall  come  to  thy  light,  and  kings  to  the  brightness 
of  thy  rising.'  This  form  of  writing  is  one  of  the  great  character- 
istics of  the  ancient  Hebrew  poetry  ;  very  different  from,  and  even 
opposite  to,  the  style  of  the  Greek  and  Ri  man  poets. 

Independently  of  this  peculiar  mode  o(  construction,  the  sacred 
poetry  is  distinguished  by  the  highest  beauties  of  strong,  concise, 
bold,  and  figurative  expression. 

Conciseness  and  strength  are  two  of  its  most  remarkable  charac 
ters.  One  might  indeed  at  first  imagine,  that  the  practice  of  the 
Hebrew  poets,  of  always  amplifying  the  same  thought  by  repetition 
or  contrast,  might  tend  to  enfeeble  their  style.  But  they  conduct 
themselves  so,  as  not  to  produce  this  effect.  Their  sentences  are 
always  short.  Few  superfluous  words  are  used.  The  same  thought 
is  never  dwelt  upon  long.  To  their  conciseness  and  sobriety  of 
expression,  their  poetry  is  indebted  for  much  of  its  sublimity;  and 
all  writers  who  attempt  the  sublime,  might  profit  much,  by  imitating 
in  this  respect,  the  style  of  the  Old  Testament.  For, as  I  have  for- 
merly had  occasion  to  show,  nothing  is  so  great  an  enemy  to  the 
sublime,  as  prolixity  or  difluseness.  The  mind  is  never  so  much 
affected  by  any  great  idea  that  is  presented  to  it,  as  when  it  is  struck 
all  at  once.     By  attempting  to  prolong  the  impression,  we  at  the 


lect.  xli.]      THE  POETRY  OF  THE  HEBREWS.  463 

same  time  weaken  it.  Most  of  the  ancient  original  poets  of  a}] 
nations  are  simple  and  concise.  The  superfluities  and  excrescences 
of  style,  were  the  result  of  imitation  in  after-times;  when  compo- 
sition passed  into  inferior  hands,  and  flowed  from  art  and  study, 
more  than  from  native  genius. 

N  J  writings  whatever  abound  so  much  with  the  most  bold  and  ani- 
mated figures,  as  the  sacred  books.  It  is  proper  to  dwell  a  httle 
tpon  this  article  ;  as,  through  our  early  familiarity  with  these  books, 
(a  familiarity  too  often  with  the  sound  of  the  words,  rather  than 
with  their  sense  and  meaning,)  beauties  of  style  escape  us  in  the 
Scripture,  which,  in  any  other  book,  would  draw  particular  atten- 
tion. Metaphors,  comparisons,  allegories,  and  personifications,  are 
there  particularly  frequent.  In  order  to  do  justice  to  these,  it  is 
necessary  that  we  transport  ourselves  as  much  as  we  can  into  the 
land  of  Judaea;  and  place  before  our  eyes  that  scenery,  and  those 
objects,  with  which  the  Hebrew  writers  were  conversant.  Some 
attention  of  this  kind  is  requisite,  in  order  to  relish  the  writings  of 
any  poet  of  a  foreign  country,  and  a  different  age.  For  the  imagery 
of  every  good  poet  is  copied  from  nature,  and  real  life  ;  if  it  were 
not  so,  it  could  not  be  lively  ;  and  therefore,  in  order  to  enter  into 
the  propriety  of  his  images,  we  must  endeavour  to  place  ourselves 
in  his  situation.  Now  we  shall  find  that  the  metaphors  and  com- 
parisons of  the  Hebrew  poets,  present  to  us  a  very  beautiful  view 
of  the  natural  objects  of  their  own  country,  and  of  the  arts  and  em- 
ployments of  their  common  life. 

Natural  objects  are  in  some  measure  common  to  them  with  poets 
of  all  ages  and  countries.  Light  and  darkness,  trees  and  flowers, 
the  forest  and  the  cultivated  field,  suggest  to  them  many  beautiful 
figures.  But,  in  order  to  relish  their  figures  of  this  kind,  we  must 
take  notice,  that  several  of  them  arise  from  the  particular  circum- 
stances of  the  land  of  Judaea.  During  the  summer  months,  little  or 
no  rain  falls  throughout  all  that  region.  While  the  heats  continued,- 
the  country  was  intolerably  parched ;  want  of  water  was  a  great 
distress  ;  and  a  plentiful  shower  falling,  or  a  rivulet  breaking  forth, 
altered  the  whole  face  of  nature,  and  introduced  much  higher  ideas 
of  refreshment  and  pleasure,  than  the  like  causes  can  suggest  to  us* 
Hence,  to  represent  distress,  such  frequent  allusions  among  them, 
to  '  a  dry  and  thirsty  land,  where  no  water  is  ;'  and  hence  to  de- 
scribe a  change  from  distress  to  prosperity,  their  metapnors  are 
founded  on  the  falling  of  showers,  and  the  bursting  out  of  springs 
in  the  desert.  Thus  in  Isaiah: '  The  wilderness  and  the  solitary 
pi  a  33  shall  be  glad,  and  the  desert  shall  rejoice  and  blossom  as  t)& 
rose.  For  in  the  wilderness  shall  waters  break  out,  and  streams 
in  the  dcert;  and  the  parched  ground  shall  become  a  pool ;  and 
the  thirsty  land,  springs  of  water;  in  the  habitation  of  dragons 
there  shall  be  grass,  with  rushes  and  reeds.'  Chap.  xxxv.  1  6,  7. 
Images  of  this  nature  are  very  familiar  to  Isaiah,  and  occur  in  many 
parts  of  his  book. 

Again,  as  Judaea  was  a  hilly  country,  it  was,  during  the  rainy 
months,exposed  to  frequent  inundations  by  the  rushing  of  torrents, 
3X 


464  THE  POETRY  OF  THE  HEBREWS,      [lect.  xli. 

which  came  down  suddenly  from  the  mountains,  and  carried  every 
thing  before  them;  and  Jordan,  their  only  great  river,  annually 
overflowed  its  banks.  Hence  the  frequent  allusions  to '  the  noise, 
and  to  the  rushings  of  many  waters  ;'  and  hence  great  calamities  so 
often  compared  to  the  overflowing  torrent,  which,  in  such  a  coun- 
try, must  have  been  images  particularly  striking:  'Deep  calleth 
jnto  deep  at  the  noise  of  thy  water-spouts  ;  all  thy  waves  and  thy 
nil  lows  are  gone  over  me.'     Psalm  xlii.  7. 

The  two  most  remarkable  mountains  of  the  country,  were  Leba- 
non and  Carmel ;  the  former  noted  for  its  height,  and  the  woods  of 
lofty  cedars  that  covered  it ;  the  latter,for  its  beauty  and  fertility, 
and  the  richness  of  its  vines  and  olives.  Hence,  with  the  greatest  pro 
priety,  Lebanon  is  employed  as  an  image  of  whatever  is  great, 
strong,  or  magnificent;  Carmel,  of  what  is  smiling  and  beautiful. 
'  The  glory  of  Lebanon/  says  Isaiah,  '  shall  be  given  to  it,  and  the 
excellency  of  Carmel.'  (xxxv.  2.)  Lebanon  is  often  put  metaphori- 
cally for  the  whole  state  or  people  of  Israel,  for  the  temple,  for  the 
king  of  Assyria  ;  Carmel,  for  the  blessings  of  peace  and  prosperity. 
'  His  countenance  is  as  Lebanon,'  says  Solomon,  speaking  of  the 
dignity  of  a  man's  appearance  ;  but  when  he  describes  female  beau- 
ty, '  Thine  head  is  like  mount  Carmel.'    Song  v.  15.  and  vii.  5. 

It  is  farther  to  be  remarked  under  this  head,  that  in  the  images 
of  the  awful  and  terrible  kind,  with  which  the  sacred  poets  abound, 
they  plainly  draw  their  descriptions  from  that  violence  of  the  ele- 
ments, and  those  concussions  of  nature,  with  which  their  climate 
rendered  them  acquainted.  Earthquakes  were  not  unfrequent ; 
and  the  tempests  of  hail,  thunder,  and  lightning,  in  Judaea  and 
Arabia,  accompanied  with  whirlwinds  and  darkness,  far  exceed 
any  thing  of  that  sort  which  happens  in  more  temperate  regions. 
Isaiah  describes,  with  great  majesty,  the  earth  'reeling  to  and  fro 
like  a  drunkard,  and  removed  like  a  cottage.'  (xxiv.  20.)  And  in 
those  circumstances  of  terror,  with  which  an  appearance  of  the  Al- 
mighty is  described  in  the  18th  Psalm,  when  his  'pavilion  round 
about  him  was  darkness;  when  hailstones  and  coals  of  fire  were  hjis 
voice  ;  and  when,  at  his  rebuke,  the  channels  of  the  waters  are  said 
to  be  seen,  and  the  foundations  of  the  hills  discovered;'  though 
there  may  be  some  reference,  as  Dr.  Lowth  thinks,  to  the  history 
of  God's  descent  upon  Mount  Sinai,  yet  ii  seems  more  probable, 
that  the  figures  were  taken  directly  from  t\  ose  commotions  of  na- 
ture with  which  the  author  was  acquainted  and  which  suggested 
stronger  and  nobler  images  than  what  now  r  rcur  to  us. 

Besides  the  natural  objects  of  their  own  cc  ntry,  we  find  tlje  rites 
of  their  religion,  and  the  arts  and  employments  of  their  common 
life,  frequently  employed  as  grounds  of  image*  y  among  the  Hebrews 
They  were  a  people  chiefly  occupied  with  agriculture  and  pasturage. 
These  were  arts  held  in  high  honour  among  them  ;  not  disdained 
by  their  patriarchs,  kings,  and  prophets.  Little  addicted  to  com- 
merce; separated  from  the  rest  of  the  world  by  ttieir  laws  and  their 
religion;  they  were,during  the  better  days  of  their  state,  strangers 
in  a  great  measure  to  the  refinements  of  luxury.     Hence  flowed,  of 


lect.  xli.]    THE  POETRY  OF  THE  HEBREWS.  465 

course,  the  many  allusions  to  pastoral  life, to  the  'green  pastures  and 
the  still  waters,'  and  to  the  care  and  watchfulness  of  a  shepherd 
over  his  flock,  which  carry  to  this  day  so  much  beauty  and  tender- 
ness in  them,  in  the  23d  Psalm,  and  in  many  other  passages  of  the 
poetical  writings  of  Scripture.  Hence,  all  the  images  founded  upon 
rural  employments,  upon  the  wine-press,  the  threshing-floor,  the 
stubble  and  the  chaff.  To  disrelish  all  such  images,  is  the  effect  of 
false  delicacy.  Homer  is  at  least  as  frequent,  and  much  more  mi- 
nute and  particular,  in  his  similes,  founded  on  what  we  now  call  low 
life;  but,  in  his  management  of  them,  far  inferior  to  the  sacred  wri- 
ters, who  generally  mix  with  their  comparisons  of  this  kind  some- 
what of  dignity  and  grandeur  to  ennoble  them.  What  inexpressible 
grandeur  does  the  following  rural  image  in  Isaiah,  for  instance,  re- 
ceive from  the  intervention  of  the  Deity  :  'The  nations  shall  rush  like 
the  rushings  of  many  waters ;  but  God  shall  rebuke  them,  and  they 
shall  fly  far  off;  and  they  shall  be  chased  as  the  chaffof  the  mountain 
before  the  wind,  and  like  the  down  of  the  thistle  before  the  whirlwind.' 

Figurative  allusions,  too,  we  frequently  find,  to  the  rites  and  cere- 
monies of  their  religion ;  to  the  legal  distinctions  of  things  clean 
and  unclean ;  to  the  mode  of  their  temple  service ;  to  the  dress  of 
their  priests ;  and  to  the  most  noted  incidents  recorded  in  their 
sacred  history ;  as  to  the  destruction  of  Sodom,  the  descent  of 
God  upon  Mount  Sinai,  and  the  miraculous  passage  of  the  Israelites 
through  the  Red  Sea.  The  religion  of  the  Hebrews  included  the 
whole  of  their  laws  and  civil  constitution.  It  was  full  of  splendid 
external  rites  that  occupied  their  senses ;  it  was  connected  with 
every  part  of  their  national  history  and  establishment;  and  hence, 
all  ideas  founded  on  religion,  possessed  in  this  nation  a  dignity  and 
importance  peculiar  to  themselves,  and  were  uncommonly  fitted  to 
mpress  the  imagination. 

From  all  this  it  results,  that  the  imagery  of  the  sacred  poets  is,  in 
a  high  degree,  expressive  and  natural ;  it  is  copied  directly  from  real 
objects  that  were  before  their  eyes ;  it  has  this  advantage,  of  being 
more  complete  within  itself,  more  entirely  founded  on  national  ideas 
and  manners,  than  that  of  most  other  poets.  In  reading  their  works, 
we  find  ourselves  continually  in  the  land  of  Judaea.  The  palm-trees, 
and  the  cedars  of  Lebanon,  are  ever  rising  in  our  view.  The  face  of 
their  territory,  the  circumstances  of  theirclimate,  the  mannersof  the 
people,  and  the  august  ceremonies  of  their  religion,  constantly  pass 
under  different  forms  before  us. 

The  comparisons  employed  by  the  sacred  poets  are  generally 
short,  touching  on  one  point  only  of  resemblance,  rather  than 
branching  out  into  little  episodes.  In  this  respect,  they  have  per 
haps  an  advantage  over  the  Greek  and  Roman  authors ;  whose  com- 
parisons, by  the  length  to  which  they  are  extended,  sometimes 
interrupt  the  narration  too  much,  and  carry  too  visible  marks  of 
study  and  labour.  Whereas,  in  the  Hebrew  poets,  they  appear 
more  like  the  glowings  of  a  lively  fancy,  just  glancing  aside  to  some 
resembling  object,  and  presently  returning  to  its  track.     Such  is  the 

59 


466  THE  POETRY  OF  THE  HEBREWS,    [lect.  xli 

following;  fine  comparison,  introduced  to  describe  the  happy  influ 
cnce  of  good  government  upon  a  people,  in  what  arc  called  the 
last  words  of  David,  recorded  in  the  2d  book  of  Samuel :  (xxiii.  3.) 
•'  He  that  ruleth  over  men  must  be  just,  ruling  in  the  fear  of  God; 
and  he  shall  be  as  the  light  of  the  morning,  when  the  sun  riseth ; 
even  a  morning  without  clouds  ;  as  the  tender  grass  springing  out  of 
the  earth,  by  clear  shining  after  rain."  This  is  one  of  the  most 
regular  and  formal  comparisons  in  the  sacred  books. 

Allegory,  likewise,  is  a  figure  frequently  found  in  them.  When 
formerly  treating  of  this  figure,  I  gave,  for  an  instance  of  it,  that 
remarkably  fine  and  well-supported  allegory,  which  occurs  in  the 
80th  Psalm,  wherein  the  people  of  Israel  are  compared  to  a  vine. 
Of  parables,  which  form  a  species  of  allegory,  the  prophetical  wri- 
tings are  full ;  and  if  to  us  they  sometimes  appear  obscure,  we  must 
remember,  that  in  those  early  times,  it  was  universally  the  mode 
throughout  all  the  eastern  nations,  to  convey  sacred  truths  under 
mysterious  figures  and  representations. 

But  the  poetical  figure,  which,  beyond  all  others,  elevates  the 
style  of  Scripture,  and  gives  it  a  peculiar  boldness  and  sublimity,  is 
prosopopoeia  or  personification.  No  personifications  employed  by 
any  poets,  are  so  magnificent  and  striking  as  those  of  the  inspired 
writers.  On  great  occasions,  they  animate  every  part  of  nature  •, 
especially,  when  any  appearance  or  operation  of  the  Almighty  is 
concerned.  "  Before  him  went  the  pestilence — the  waters  saw  thee, 
0  God,  and  were  afraid — the  mountains  saw  thee,  and  they  trem- 
bled— the  overflowing  of  the  water  passed  by — the  deep  uttered 
his  voice,  and  lifted  up  his  hands  on  high."  When  inquiry  is  made 
about  the  place  of  wisdom,  Job  introduces  the  "  Deep,  saying,  it  is 
not  in  me;  and  the  sea  saith,  it  is  not  in  me.  Destruction  and 
death  say,  We  have  heard  the  fame  thereof  with  our  ears."  That 
noted  sublime  passage  in  the  book  of  Isaiah,  which  describes  the 
fall  of  the  king  of  Assyria,  is  full  of  -/^sonified  objects ;  the  fir-trees 
and  cedars  of  Lebanon  breaking  forth  into  exultation  on  the  fall  of 
the  tyrant;  hell  from  beneath,  stirring  up  all  the  dead  to  meet  him 
at  his  coming;  and  the  dead  kings  introduced  as  speaking,  and  join- 
ing in  the  triumph.  In  the  same  strain,  are  the  many  lively  and 
passionate  apostrophes  to  cities  and  countries,  to  persons  and  things, 
with  which  the  prophetical  writings  every  where  abound.  "  0  thou 
sword  of  the  Lord!  how  long  will  it  be  ere  thou  be  quiet?  put 
thyself  up  into  the  scabbard,  rest  and  be  still."  "How  can  it  be  quiet," 
(as  the  reply  is  instantly  made)  "seeing  the  Lord  hath  given  it  a 
charge  against  Askelon,  and  the  sea-shore?  there  hath  he  appointed 
it."     Jerem.  xlvii.  6. 

In  general,  for  it  would  carry  us  too  far  to  enlarge  upon  all  the 
instances,  the  style  of  the  poetical  books  of  the  Old  Testament  is, 
beyond  the  style  of  all  other  poetical  works,  fervid,  bold,  and  ani- 
mated. It  is  extremely  different  from  that  regular  correct  expres- 
sion, to  which  our  ears  are  accustomed  in  modern  poetry.  It  is  the 
burst  of  inspiration.  The  scenes  are  not  coolly  described,  but  re- 
presented as  passing  before  our  eyes.     Every  object,  and  every 


lect.  xli.]     THE  POETRY  OF  THE  HEBREWS.  467 

person,  is  addressed  and  spoken  to,  as  if  present.  The  transilion 
is  often  abrupt ;  the  connexion  often  obscure  ;  the  persons  are  often 
changed :  figures  crowded,  and  heaped  upon  one  another.  Bold 
sublimity,  not  correct  elegance,  is  its  character.  We  see  the  spirit 
of  the  writer  raised  beyond  himself,  and  labouring  to  find  vent  for 
ideas  too  mighty  for  his  utterance. 

After  these  remarks  on  the  poetry  of  the  Scriptures, ingeneral,  I 
shall  conclude  this  dissertation,  with  a  short  account  of  the  different 
kinds  of  poetical  composition  in  the  sacred  books ;  and  of  the  dis- 
tinguishing characters  of  some  of  the  chief  writers. 

The  several  kinds  of  poetical  composition  which  we  find  in  Scrip- 
ture, are  chiefly  of  the  didactic,  elegiac,  pastoral,  and  lyric.  Of  the 
didactic  species  of  poetry,  the  book  of  Proverbs  is  the  principal 
instance.  The  nine  first  chapters  of  that  book  are  highly  poetical, 
adorned  with  many  distinguished  graces  and  figures  of  expression. 
At  the  tenth  chapter  the  style  is  sensibly  altered,  and  descends  into 
a  lower  strain,  which  is  continued  to  the  end :  retaining,  however, 
that  sententious  pointed  manner,  and  that  artful  construction  of  pe- 
riod, which  distinguish  all  the  Hebrew  poetry.  The  book  of  Eccle- 
siastes  comes  likewise  under  this  head  ;  and  some  of  the  Psalms,  as 
the  119th  in  particular. 

Of  elegiac  poetry,  many  very  beautiful  specimens  occur  in  Scrip- 
ture; such  as  the  lamentation  of  David  over  his  friend  Jonathan  ; 
several  passages  in  the  prophetical  books  ;  and  several  of  David's 
Psalms,  composed  on  occasions  of  distress  and  mourning.  The  42d 
Psalm,  in  particular,  is,  in  the  highest  degree,  tender  and  plaintive. 
But  the  most  regular  and  perfect  elegiac  composition  in  the  Scrip- 
ture, perhaps  in  the  whole  world,  is  the  book,  entitled  the  Lamen- 
tations of  Jeremiah.  As  the  prophet  mourns  in  that  book  over  the 
destruction  of  the  temple,  and  the  holy  city,  and  the  overthrow  of 
the  whole  state,  he  assembles  all  the  affecting  images  which  a  sub- 
ject so  melancholy  could  suggest.  The  composition  is  uncommonly 
artificial.  By  turns,  the  prophet,  and  the  city  of  Jerusalem,  are  in- 
troduced, as  pouring  forth  their  sorrows ;  and  in  the  end,  a  chorus  of 
the  people  send  up  the  most  earnest  and  plaintive  supplications  to 
God.  The  lines  of  the  original,  too,  as  may,  in  part,  appear  from 
our  translation,  are  longer  than  is  usual  in  the  other  kinds  of  Hebrew 
poetry  :  and  the  melody  is  rendered  thereby  more  flowing  and  bet- 
ter adapted  to  the  querimonious  strain  of  elegy. 

The  Song  of  Solomon  affords  us  a  high  exemplification  of  pasto- 
ral poetry.  Considered  with  respect  to  its  spiritual  meaning,  it  is 
undoubtedly  a  mystical  allegory;  in  its  form,  it  is  a  dramatic  pasto- 
ral, or  a  perpetual  dialogue  between  personages  in  the  character  of 
shepherds ;  and  suitably  to  that  form,  it  is  full  of  rural  and  pastoral 
images,  from  beginning  to  end. 

Of  lyric  poetry,  or  that  which  is  intended  to  be  accompanied  with 
music,  the  Old  Testament  is  full.  Besides  a  great  number  of 
hymns  and  songs,  which  we  find  scattered  in  the  historical  and  pro- 
phetical books,  such  as  the  song  of  Moses,  the  song  of  Deborah, 
and  many  others  of  like  nature,  the  whole  book  of  Psalms  is  to  be 


468  THE  POETRY  OF  THE  HEBREWS,     [lect.  xli 

considered  as  a  collection  of  sacred  odes.  In  these,  we  find  the  ode 
exhibited  in  all  the  varieties  of  its  form,  and  supported  with  the 
highest  spirit  of  lyric  poetry;  sometimes  sprightly,  cheerful,  and  tri- 
umphant ;  sometimes  solemn  and  magnificent ;  sometimes  tender  and 
soft.  From  these  instances,  it  clearly  appears,  that  there  are  con- 
tained in  the  Holy  Scriptures,  full  exemplifications  of  several  of  the 
chief  kinds  of  poetical  writing. 

Among  the  different  composers  of  the  sacred  books,  there  is  an 
evident  diversity  of  style  and  manner;  and  to  trace  their  different 
characters  in  this  view,  will  contribute  not  a  little  towards  our  read- 
ing their  writings  with  greater  advantage.  The  most  eminent  of 
the  sacred  poets  are,  the  author  of  the  book  of  Job,  David,  and 
Isaiah.  As  the  compositions  of  David  are  of  the  lyric  kind,  there  is 
a  greater  variety  of  style  and  manner  in  his  works,  than  in  those  of  the 
other  two.  The  manner  in  which,  considered  merely  as  a  poet, 
David  chiefly  excels,  is  the  pleasing,  the  soft,  and  the  tender.  In 
his  Psalms  there  are  many  lofty  and  sublime  passages ;  but,  in  strength 
of  description,  he  yields  to  Job;  in  sublimity,  he  yields  to  Isaiah. 
It  is  a  sort  of  temperate  grandeur,  for  which  David  is  chiefly  dis- 
tinguished ;  and  to  this  he  always  soon  returns,  when,  upon  some 
occasions,  he  rises  above  it.  The  Psalms  in  which  he  touches  us 
most  are  those  in  which  he  describes  the  happiness  of  the  right- 
eous, or  the  goodness  of  God  ;  expresses  the  tender  breathings  of  a 
devout  mind,  or  sends  up  moving  and  affectionate  supplications  ti 
Heaven.  Isaiah  is, without  exception,  the  most  sublime  of  all  poets 
This  is  abundantly  visible  in  our  translation  ;  and,  what  is  a  mate 
rial  circumstance,  none  of  the  books  of  Scripture  appear  to  have 
been  more  happily  translated  than  the  writings  of  this  prophet 
Majesty  is  his  reigning  character;  a  majesty  more  commanding, 
and  more  uniformly  supported,  than  is  to  be  found  among  the  rest 
of  the  Old  Testament  poets.  He  possesses,  indeed,  a  dignity  and 
grandeur,  both  in  his  conceptions  and  expressions,  which  is  altogethei 
unparalleled,  and  peculiar  to  himself.  There  is  more  clearness  and 
order  too,  and  a  more  visible  distribution  of  parts,  in  his  book,  than 
in  any  other  of  the  prophetical  writings. 

When  we  compare  him  with  the  rest  of  the  poetical  prophets,  we 
immediately  see  in  Jeremiah  a  very  different  genius.  Isaiah  employs 
himself  generally  on  magnificent  subjects.  Jeremiah  seldom  disco- 
vers any  disposition  to  be  sublime,  and  inclines  always  to  the  tender 
and  elegiac.  Ezekiel,  in  poetical  grace  and  elegance,  is  much  inferior 
to  them  both ;  but  he  is  distinguished  by  a  character  of  uncommon  force 
and  ardour.  To  use  the  elegant  expressions  of  Bishop  Lowth,  with 
regard  to  this  prophet:  '  Est  atrox,  vehemens,  tragicus ;  in  sensibus, 
fervidus,  acerbus,  indignabundus;  in  imaginibus  fecundus,  trucu- 
lentus,  et  nonnunquam  pene  deformis;  in  dictione  grandiloquus, 
gravis,  austerus,  et  interdum  incultus;  frequens  in  repetitionibus, 
non  decoris  aut  gratiae  causa,  sed  ex  indignatione  et  violentia. 
Quicquid  susceperit  tractandum  id  sedulo  persequitur;  in  eo  unice 
hreret  defixus  ;  a  proposito  raro  deflectens.  In  caeteris,  a  plerisque 
vatibus  fortasse  superatus  ;  sed  in  eo  genere,  ad  quod  videtur  a  na- 


lect.  xli.j     THE  POETRY  OF  THE  HEBREWS.  469 

tora  unice  comparatus,  nimirum,  vi,  pondere,  impetu,  granditate,  ne- 
mo unquam  eum  superavit.'  The  same  learned  writer  compares 
Isaiah  to  Homer,  Jeremiah  to  Simonides,  and  Ezekiel  to  iEschylus. 
Most  of  the  book  of  Isaiah  is  strictly  poetical ;  of  Jeremiah  and 
Ezekiel,  not  above  one  half  can  be  held  to  belong  to  poetry. 
Among  the  minor  prophets,  Hosea,  Joel,  Micah,  Habakkuk,  and  es- 
pecially Nahum,  are  distinguished  for  poetical  spirit.  In  the  pro- 
phecies of  Daniel  and  Jonah,  there  is  no  poetry. 

It  only  now  remains  to  speak  of  the  book  of  Job,  with  which  I 
shall  conclude.  It  is  known  to  be  extremely  ancient ;  generally  re- 
puted the  most  ancient  of  all  the  poetical  books;  the  author  uncer- 
tain. It  is  remarkable,  that  this  book  has  no  connexion  With  the 
affairs  or  manners  of  the  Jews  or  Hebrews.  The  scene  is  laid  in 
the  land  of  Uz,  or  Idumaea,  which  is  a  part  of  Arabia;  and  the 
imagery  employed  is  generally  of  a  different  kind,  from  what  I  before 
showed  to  be  peculiar  to  the  Hebrew  poets.  We  meet  with  no  al- 
lusions to  the  great  events  of  sacred  history,  to  the  religious  rites  of 
the  Jews,  to  Lebanon  or  to  Carmel,  or  any  of  the  peculiarities  of 
the  climate  of  Judaea.  We  find  few  comparisons  founded  on  rivers 
or  torrents;  these  were  not  familiar  objects  in  Arabia.  But  the 
longest  comparison  that  occurs  in  the  book,  is  to  an  object  frequent 
and  well  known  in  that  region,  a  brook  that  fails  in  the  season  of  heat, 
and  disappoints  the  expectation  of  the  traveller. 

The  poetry,  however,  of  the  book  of  Job,  is  not  onty  equal  to 
that  of  any  other  of  the  sacred  writings,  but  is  superior  to  them  all. 
except  those  of  Isaiah  alone.  As  Isaiah  is  the  most  sublime,  David 
the  most  pleasing  and  tender,  so  Job  is  the  most  descriptive,  of  ail 
the  inspired  poets.  A  peculiar  glow  of  fancy,  and  strength  of  des- 
cription, characterize  the  author.  No  writer  whatever  abounds  so 
much  in  metaphors.  He  may  be  said  not  to  describe,  but  to  render 
visible,  whatever  he  treats  of.  A  variety  of  instances  might  be  given. 
Let  us  remark  only  those  strong  and  lively  colours,  with  which,  in 
the  following  passages  taken  from  the  18th  and  20th  chapters  of  his 
book,  he  paints  the  condition  of  the  wicked;  observe  how  rapidly 
his  figures  rise  before  us ;  and  what  a  deep  impression,  at  the  same 
time,  they  leave  on  the  imagination.  '  Knowest  thou  not  this  of  old, 
since  man  was  placed  upon  the  earth,  that  the  triumphing  of  the 
wicked  is  short,  and  the  joy  of  the  hypocrite  but  for  a  moment? 
Though  his  excellency  mount  up  to  the  heavens,  and  his  head  reach 
the  clouds,  yet  he  shall  perish  for  ever.  He  shall  fly  away  as  a  dream, 
and  shall  not  be  found;  yea,  he  shall  be  chased  away  as  a  vision 
of  the  night.  The  eye  also  which  saw  him,  shall  see  him  no  more ; 
they  which  have  seen  him  shall  say,  Where  is  he? — He  shall  suck 
the  poison  of  asps;  the  viper's  tongue  shall  slay  him.  In  the  ful- 
ness of  his  sufficiency,  he  shall  be  in  straits  ;  every  hand  shall  come 
upon  him.  He  shall  flee  from  the  iron  weapon,  and  the  bow  of  steel 
shall  strike  him  through.  All  darkness  shall  be  hid  in  his  secret  pla- 
ces. A  fire  not  Dlown  shall  consume  him.  The  heaven  shall  re- 
veal his  iniquity,  and  the  earth  shall  rise  up  against  him.  The  in- 
crease of  his  house  shall  depart.     His  goods  shall  flow  away  in  the 


470 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  xli. 


day  of  wrath.  The  light  of  the  wicked  shall  be  put  out ;  the  light 
shall  be  dark  in  his  tabernacle.  The  steps  of  his  strength  shall  be 
straitened,  and  his  own  counsel  shall  cast  him  down.  For  he  is  cast 
into  a  net,  by  his  own  feet.  He  walketh  upon  a  snare.  Terrors 
shall  make  him  afraid  on  every  side ;  and  the  robber  shall  prevail 
against  him.  Brimstone  shall  be  scattered  upon  his  habitation.  His 
remembrance  shall  perish  from  the  earth,  and  he  shall  have  no  name 
in  the  street.  He  shall  be  driven  from  light  into  darkness.  They 
that  come  after  him  shall  be  astonished  at  his  day.  He  shall  drink 
of  the  wrath  of  the  Almighty.' 


Q,UESTIOtfS. 


Among  the  various  kinds  of  poetry, 
which  we  are  at  present  employed  in 
examining,  what  justly  deserves  a 
place?  With  what  view  alone,  do  the 
sacred  books  afford  a  curious  object  of 
criticism?  What  do  they  display;  and 
what  exhibit  ?  In  what  view  do  they 
give  rise  to  discussion  of  another  kind? 
But  what,  at  present,  is  our  business ; 
and  what  must  needs  give  pleasure  ? 
What  treatise  ought  to  be  particularly 
perused ;  and  of  it,  what  is  observed  ?  In 
this  lecture,  what  course  is  consequently 
pursued?  In  showing  what,  need  not 
many  words  be  spent  ?  How  is  this  il- 
lustrated ?  What  is  there  no  reason  to 
doubt?  What  has  this  occasioned? 
Taking  the  Old  Testament,  in  our  own 
translation,  what  do  we  find  ?  How  is 
this  remark  illustrated  ?  To  show  what, 
is  this  sufficient ;  and  afterwards,  what 
shall  be  shown  ?  What  may  it  be  pro- 
per, in  parsing,  to  remark?  What  illus- 
tration of  this  remark  is  given  ?  What 
evidence  have  we,  that  music  and 
poetry  were  cultivated  among  the  He- 
Drews,  from  the  earliest  times  ?  Of  the 
general  construction  of  Hebrew  poetry, 
what  is  remarked?  In  what  does  it  con- 
sist ?  What  is  done  in  the  first  member 
of  the  period ;  and  also  in  the  second  ? 
What  instance,  to  illustrate  this  form 
of  Hebrew  poetry,  is  given?  To  this 
kirn  of  composition,  what  is  owing; 
and  why  ?  From  what  is  the  origin  of 
this  form  of  composition  among  the  He- 
brews, to  be  deduced?  With  what  were 
Uiey  accompanied  ;  and  by  whom  were 
they  performed  ?  To  illustrate  this, 
what  instances  are  given  ?  In  this 
manner,  their  poetry,  when  set  to 
music,  naturally    divided    itself    into 


what?  Whence,  what  probably  deri 
ved  its  origin  ?  In  the  book  of  Ezra, 
what  are  we  expressly  .old ;  and  of 
some  of  David's  Psalms,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  Repeat  the  remarks  made  or> 
the  24th  Psalm,  to  illustrate  this  re- 
mark. Why  does  our  author  notice  this 
instance  ?  The  method  of  composition 
which  has  been  explained,  being  uni- 
versally introduced  into  the  hymns  of 
the  Jews,  what  was  the  consequence  ? 
But  of  this  mode,  what  is  observed  ? 
Hence,  where  do  we  find  it  prevailing  ; 
and  what  instance  is  given  ?  Of  thie 
form  of  writing,  what  is  remarked  ?  In- 
dependently of  thm  peculiar  mode  of 
construction,  by  what  is  the  sacred 
poetry  distinguished  ?  What  are  its  two 
most  remarkable  characters?  What 
might  one  at  first  imagine?  But  how  do 
they  prevent  this  effect?  To  what  is 
their  poetry  indebted  for  much  of  its 
sublimity  ?  How  might  all  writers,  who 
attempt  the  sublime,  profit  much  ;  and 
why  ?  When  is  the  mind  most  affected 
hy  any  great  idea ;  and  what  is  the  ef- 
feet  of  attempting  to  prolong  the  im- 
pression ?  Of  most  of  the  ancient  ori- 
ginal poets,  what  is  observed  ;  and  of 
what  were  the  superfluities  and  exere- 
seences  of  style,  the  result  ?  With  what 
do  the  sacred  books  more  particularly 
abound,  than  any  other  writings  ?  Why 
is  it  proper  to  dwell  a  little  upon  thi<  ar 
tide  ?  What  figures  there,  are  particu- 
larly frequent  ?  In  order  to  do  justice 
to  these,  what  is  necessary  ?  In  orde7 
to  do  what,  is  some  attention  of  thi* 
kind  requisite;  and  why?  Pursuing 
this  course,  wha  „  shall  we  find  ?  Of 
natural  objects,  what  is  observe..:  anc 
what  suggest  to  them  many  beautify 


LECT.  XLI.] 


QUESTIONS 


470 


Secures?  But  in  order  to  relish  their 
figures  of  this  kind,  of  what  must  we 
take  notice  ?  Of  this  remark,  what  il- 
lustration is  given?  Again,  as  Judea 
was  a  hilly  country,  to  what,  during 
the  rainy  months,  was  it  exposed? 
Hence,  the  frequent  allusions  to  what ; 
and  hence  to  what  are  great  calamities 
frequently  compared  ?  Repeat  the  pas- 
sage here  introduced  from  the  Psalms. 
Which  were  the  two  most  remarkable 
mountains  of  the  country ;  and  for 
what  were  they  respectively  noted  ? 
Hence,  how  are  they,  with  the  greatest 
propriety,  employed  ?  Repeat  the  illus- 
trations that  follow.  Under  this  head, 
what  is  farther  to  be  remarked?  Of 
earthquakes,  tempests,  and  thunder  and 
lightning,  what  is  observed  ?  How  does 
Isaiah  describe  the  earth?  In  those 
circumstances  of  terror,  with  which  an 
appearance  of  the  almighty  is  descri- 
bed, from  what,  is  it  probable,  the 
figures  were  taken?  Repeat  the  pas- 
sage. 

Besides  the  natural  objects  of  their 
own  country,  what  did  the  Hebiews 
frequently  employ  as  grounds  of  im- 
agery ?  With  what  were  they  chiefly 
occupied ;  and  in  what  estimation  were 
these  held  ?  As  they  were  little  addict- 
ed to  commerce,  and  separated  from 
the  rest  of  the  world  by  their  laws  and 
their  religion,  what  was  the  conse- 
quence? Hence,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
what  allusions  flowed  ?  Hence,  also, 
vvhat  images  were  employed  ?  To  dis- 
relish such  images  is  the  effect  of  what? 
Of  Homer,  what  is  here  observed? 
Repeat  the  passage  here  introduced 
from  Isaiah  illustrative  of  this  remark. 
To  what,  also,  do  we  frequently  find 
figurative  allusions?  What  instances 
are  mentioned?  What  did  the  religion 
of  the  Hebrews  include  ?  Of  what  was 
it  full ;  and  with  what  was  it  connect- 
ed ?  Hence,  what  followed  ?  From  all 
this,  what  results  ?  Whence  is  it  copied ; 
and  what  advantage  has  it  ?  In  read- 
ing their  works,  where  do  we  find  our- 
selves; what  are  ever  rising  in  our 
view  ;  and  what  constantly  pass  in  dif- 
ferent forms  before  us  ?  Of  the  compari- 
sons employed  by  the  sacred  poets, 
what  is  observed  ?  In  this  respect,  over 
whom  have  they  an  advantage ;  and 
how  does  this  appear?  To  illustrate  this 
remark,  what  fine  comparison  is  intro- 
duced? Repeat  it ;  and  of  it,  what  is 


observed?  What  otner  figure  is  also 
frequently  found  in  Scripture?  When 
formerly  treating  of  this  figure,  what 
was  done  ?  Of  the  parables  of  the  pro- 
phetical writings,  what  is  observed? 
What  poetical  figure  is  it,  which,  be 
yond  all  others,  elevates  the  style  of 
Scripture?  How  is  this  fully  illustrated? 
What  is  the  general  remark  on  the 
poetical  books  of  the  Old  Testament? 
From  what  is  it  extremely  different; 
and  what  is  it?  How  are  the  scenes 
represented ;  and  how  is  this  illustra- 
ted ?  After  these  remarks  on  the  poetry 
of  the  Scriptures  in  general,  with  what 
is  this  dissertation  concluded?  What 
are  the  several  kinds  of  poetical  com- 
position which  we  find  in  Scripture  ?  Of 
didactic  poetry,  what  is  the  principal 
instance  ?  Of  the  nine  first  chapters  of 
that  book,  what  is  observed  ;  and  what 
is  said  of  the  rest  ?  What  other  parts 
of  Scripture  likewise  come  under  this 
head  ?  Of  elegiac  poetry,  what  beauti- 
ful specimens  occur  in  Scripture  ? 
Which  of  the  Psalms  is,  in  the  highest 
degree,  tender  and  plaintive?  But  which 
is  the  most  regular  and  perfect  elegiac 
composition  in  the  Scriptures,  and  per- 
haps that  was  ever  written  ?  Of  this 
poem,  what  is  observed?  What  does 
the  song  of  Solomon  afford  us  ?  Consi- 
dered with  respect  to  its  spiritual  mean- 
ing, what  is  it;  and  what  is  it  in  its 
form  ?  Suitably  to  this  form,  of  what  is 
it  full  ?  In  what  poetry  does  the  Old 
Testament  abound?  How  is  this  re- 
mark illustrated  ?  In  the  Psalms,  what 
do  we  find  ?  From  these  instances,  what 
clearly  appears  ?  Of  the  different  Cf  m- 
posers  of  the  sacred  books,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  Who  are  the  most  eminent  oi 
the  sacred  poets  ?  As  the  compositions 
of  David  are  chiefly  of  the  lyric  kind, 
what  is  the  consequence  ;  and  in  what 
does  he  excel  ?  In  his  Psalms,  what  are 
found  ;  but  to  whom  does  he  yield ;  and 
in  what  ?  For  what  is  David  chiefly 
distinguished?  In  Avhat  Psalms  does 
he  touch  us  most?  Of  Isaiah,  what  is 
observed  ?  In  what  is  this  abundantly 
visible;  and  what  is  a  material  circum- 
stance ?  What  is  his  reigning  charac- 
ter; and  of  it,  what  is  remarked? 
What  does  he  possess ;  and  what  pre- 
vails in  his  book,  to  a  greater  extent, 
than  in  any  other  book  of  the  propheti- 
cal writings  ?  How  do  Isaiah  and  Jere- 
miah compare;  and  of  Ezekiel,  what 


470  b 


EPIC  POETRY. 


[lect.  xlii. 


is  observed?  What  comparisons  does 
Bishop  Lovvth  make?  Oi"  most  of  the 
books  of  Isaiah,  and  of  Jeremiah  and 
Ezekiel,  what  is  farther  observed  ? 
Among  the  minor  poets,  who  are  dis- 
tinguished for  poetical  spirit;  and  hi 
whose  prophecies  is  there  no  poetry? 
Of  what  does  it  still  remain  for  us  to 
speak  ?  What  are  the  general  remarks 
made  upon  it?  Of  the  poetry  of  the 
book  of  Job,  what  is  observed  ?  How  is 
this  illustrated  ?  Repeat  the  passage 
with  which  these  remarks  are  closed. 


ANALYSIS. 

1.  Introductory  remarks. 

2.  Music  and  poetry  very  early  cultivated. 

3.  Its  construction  peculiar  to  itself. 

4.  Its  remarkable  conciseness  and  strength. 

a.  The  boldness  of  its  figures. 

b.  Natural  objects  figuratively  used. 

c.  Awful  and  terrible miageryintroducedL 

d.  Religious  rights  employed. 

e.  Their  imagery,expressive  and  natural, 
r.  Their  comparisons  short  and  pointed. 
G.  Allegory  of  frequent  use. 

h.  Personification  their  boldest  figui  e. 

5.  The  different  kinds  of  Hebrew  poetiy. 

6.  Distinguished  Hebrew  poets. 
a.  The  book  of  Job. 


LECTURE  XLII. 


EPIC  POETRY. 

It  now  remains  to  treat  of  the  two  highest  kinds  of  poetical  wri- 
ting, the  epic  and  the  dramatic.  I  begin  with  the  epic.  This  lec- 
ture shall  be  employed  upon  the  general  principles  of  that  species  of 
composition  :  after  which,  I  shall  take  a  view  of  the  character  and 
genius  of  the  most  celebrated  epic  poets. 

The  epic  poem  is  universally  allowed  to  be,  of  all  poetical  works, 
the  most  dignified,  and,  at  the  same  time,  the  most  difficult  in  execu- 
tion. To  contrive  a  story  which  shall  please  and  interest  all  read- 
ers, by  being  at  once  entertaining,  important,  and  instructive  ;  to 
lill  it  with  suitable  incidents  ;  to  enliven  it  with  a  variety  of  charac- 
ters and  of  descriptions  ;  and,  throughout  a  long  work,  to  maintain 
that  propriety  of  sentiment,  and  that  elevation  of  style,  which  the 
epic  character  requires,  is  unquestionably  the  highest  effort  of  poeti- 
cal genius.  Hence  so  very  few  have  succeeded  in  the  attempt,  that 
strict  critics  will  hardly  allow  any  other  poems  to  bear  the  name  of 
epic,  except  the  Iliad  and  the  .ZEneid. 

There  is  no  subject,  it  must  be  confessed,  on  which  critics  have 
displayed  more  pedantry  than  on  this.  By  tedious  disquisitions, 
founded  on  a  servile  submission  to  authority,  they  have  given  such 
an  air  of  mystery  to  a  plain  subject,  as  to  render  it  difficult  for  an 
ordinary  reader  to  conceive  what  an  epic  poem  is.  By  Bossu's  de- 
finition, it  is  a  discourse  invented  by  art,  purely  to  form  the  manners 
of  men,  by  means  of  instructions  disguised  under  the  allegory  of  some 
■  important  action  which  is  related  in  verse.  This  definition  would 
suit  several  of  iEsop's  fables,  if  they  were  somewhat  extended,  and 
put  into  verse  ;  and  accordingly,  to  illustrate  his  definition,  the  critic 
draws  a  parallel,  in  form,  between  the  construction  of  one  of  jEsop's 
fables  and  the  plan  of  Homer's  Iliad.  The  first  thing,  says  he,  which 
either  a  writer  of  fables,  or  of  heroic  poems,  does,  is  to  choose  some 
maxim  or  point  of  morality ;  to  inculcate  which,  is  to  be  the  design 
of  his  work.  Next,  he  invents  a  general  story,  or  a  series  of  facts, 
without  any  names,  such  as  he  judges  will  be  most  proper  for  illustra- 


lect.  xlii.]  EPIC  POETRY.  471 

ting  his  intended  moral.  Lastly,  he  particula  jzes  his  story  ;  that 
is,  if  he  he  a  fabulist,  he  introduces  his  dog,  his  sheep,  and  his  wolf; 
or  if  he  be  an  epic  poet,  he  looks  out  in  ancient  history  for  some 
proper  names  of  heroes  to  give  to  his  actors ;  and  then  his  plan  is 
completed. 

This  is  one  of  the  most  frigid  and  absurd  ideas  that  ever  entered 
into  the  mind  of  a  critic.  Homer,  he  says,  saw  the  Grecians  divided 
into  a  great  number  of  independent  states  ;  but  very  often  obliged 
to  unite  into  one  body  against  their  common  enemies.  The  most 
useful  instruction  which  he  could  give  them  in  this  situation,  was, 
that  a  misunderstanding  between  princes  is  the  ruin  of  the  common 
cause.  In  order  to  enforce  this  instruction,  he  contrived,  in  his  own 
mind,  such  a  general  story  as  this.  Several  princes  join  in  a  con- 
federacy against  their  enemy.  The  prince  who  was  chosen  as  the 
leader  of  the  rest,  affronts  one  of  the  most  valiant  of  the  confederates, 
who  thereupon  withdraws  himself,  and  refuses  to  take  part  in  the 
common  enterprise.  Great  misfortunes  are  the  consequence  of  this 
division ;  till  at  length,  both  parties  having  suffered  by  the  quarrel, 
the  offended  prince  forgets  his  displeasure  and  is  reconciled  to  the 
leader  ;  and  union  being  once  restored,  there  ensues  complete  vic- 
tory over  their  enemies.  Upon  this  general  plan  of  his  fable,  adds 
Bossu,  it  was  of  no  great  consequence,  whether,  in  filling  it  up,  Ho- 
mer had  employed  the  names  of  beasts,  like  iEsop,  or  of  men.  He 
would  have  been  equally  instructive  either  way.  But  as  he  rather 
fancied  to  write  of  heroes,  he  pitched  upon  the  wall  of  Troy  for  the 
scene  of  his  fable ;  he  feigned  such  an  action  to  happen  there ;  he 
gave  the  name  of  Agamemnon  to  the  common  leader;  that  of 
Achilla?  to  the  offended  prince ;  and  so  the  Iliad  arose. 

He  that  can  believe  Homer  to  have  proceeded  in  this  manner, 
may  believe  any  thing.  One  may  pronounce,  with  great  certainty, 
that  an  author  who  should  compose  according  to  such  a  plan  ;  who 
should  arrange  all  the  subject  in  his  own  mind,  with  a  view  to  the 
moral,  before  he  had  ever  thought  of  the  personages  who  were  to 
be  the  actors,  might  write,  perhaps,  useful  fables  for  children  ;  but 
as  to  an  epic  poem,  if  he  adventured  to  think  of  one,  it  would  be 
such  as  would  find  few  readers.  No  person  of  any  taste  can  enter- 
tain a  doubt,  that  the  first  objects  which  strike  an  epic  poet  are,  the 
hero  whom  he  is  to  celebrate,  and  the  action,  or  story,  which  is  to 
be  the  ground-work  of  his  poem.  He  does  not  sit  down,  like  a  phi- 
losopher, to  form  the  plan  of  a  treatise  of  morality.  His  genius  is 
fired  by  some  great  enterprise,  which,  to  him,  appears  noble  and 
interesting;  and  which,  therefore,  he  pitches  upon,  as  worthy  ot 
being  celebrated  in  the  highest  strain  of  poetry.  There  is  no  subject 
of  this  kind,  but  will  always  afford  some  general  moral  instruction, 
arising  from  it  naturally.  The  instruction  which  Bossu  points  out, 
is  certainly  suggested  by  the  Iliad;  and  there  is  another  which 
arises  as  naturally,  and  may  just  as  well  be  assigned  for  the  moral  of 
that  poem ;  namely,  that  providence  avenges  tho?e  who  have  suffer- 
ed injustice;  but  that  when  they  allow  their  resentment  to  carry 
them  too  far,  it  brings  misfortunes  on  then/selves.     The  subject 


472  EPIC  POETRY.  [lkct.  xli, 

of  the  poem  is  the  wrath  of  Achilles,  caused  by  the  injustice  of 
Agamemnon.  Jupiter  avenges  Achilles  by  giving  success  to  the 
Trojans  against  Agamemnon;  but  by  continuing  obstinate  in  his 
resentment,  Achilles  loses  his  beloved  friend  Patroclus. 

The  plain  account  of  the  nature  of  an  epic  poem  is,  the  recital 
of  some  illustrious  enterprise  in  a  poetical  form.  This  is  as  exact 
a  definition,  as  there  is  any  occasion  for  on  this  subject.  It  compre- 
hends several  other  poems  besides  the  Iliad  of  Homer,  the  iEneid 
of  Virgil,  and  the  Jerusalem  of  Tasso ;  which  are,  perhaps,  the 
three  most  regular  and  complete  epic  works  that  ever  were  compo- 
sed. But  to  exclude  all  poems  from  the  epic  class,  which  are  not 
formed  exactly  upon  the  same  model  as  these,  is  the  pedantry  01 
criticism.  We  can  give  exact  definitions  and  descriptions  of  mine- 
rals, plants,  and  animals ;  and  can  arrange  them  with  precision,  un- 
der the  different  classes  to  which  they  belong,  because  nature  affords 
a  visible  unvarying  standard,  to  which  we  refer  them.  But  with 
regard  to  works  of  taste  and  imagination,  where  nature  has  fixed  no 
standard,  but  leaves  scope  for  beauties  of  many  different  kinds,  it  is 
absurd  to  attempt  defining  and  limiting  them  with  the  same  preci- 
sion. Criticism,  when  employed  in  such  attempts,  degenerates  into 
trifling  questions  about  words  and  names  only.  I  therefore  have 
no  scruple  to  class  such  poems  as  Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  Lucan's 
Pharsalia,  Statius's  Thebaid,  Ossian's  Fingal  andTemora,Camoens' 
Lusiad,  Voltaire's  Henriade,  Cambray's  Telemachus,  Glover's  Le- 
onidas,  Wilkie's  Epigoniad,  under  the  same  species  of  composition 
with  the  Iliad  and  the  iEneid  ;  though  some  of  them  approach  much 
nearer  than  others  to  the  'perfection  of  these  celebrated  works. 
They  are,  undoubtedly,  all  epic;  that  is,  poetical  recitals  of  great  ad- 
ventures ;   which  is  all  that  is  meant  by  this  denomination  of  poetry. 

Though  I  cannot,  by  any  means,  allow,  that  it  is  the  essence  of 
an  epic  poem  to  be  wholly  an  allegory,  or  a  fable  contrived  to  illus- 
trate some  moral  truth,  yet  it  is  certain,  that  no  poetry  is  of  a  more 
moral  nature  than  this.  Its  effect  in  promoting  virtue,  is  not  to  be 
measured  by  any  one  maxim,  or  instruction,  which  results  from  the 
whole  story,  like  the  moral  of  one  of  iEsop's  fables.  This  is  a 
poor  and  trivial  view  of  the  advantage  to  be  derived  from  perusing 
a  long  epic  work,  that  at  the  end  we  shall  be  able  to  gather  from  it 
some  common-place  morality.  Its  effect  arises  from  the  impression 
which  the  parts  of  the  poem  separately,  as  well  as  the  whole  taken 
together,  make  upon  the  mind  of  the  reader ;  from  the  great  exam- 
ples which  it  sets  before  us,  and  the  high  sentiments  with  which  it 
warms  our  hearts.  The  end  which  it  proposes  is  to  extend  our 
ideas  of  human  perfection :  or,  in  ether  words,  to  excite  admiration. 
Now  this  can  be  accomplished  only  by  proper  representations  of  he- 
roic deeds  and  virtuous  characters.  For  high  virtue  is  the  object, 
which  all  mankind  are  formed  to  admire  ;  and, therefore,  epic  poems 
are,  and  must  be,  favourable  to  the  cause  of  virtue.  Valour,  truth, 
iustice,  fidelity,  friendship,  piety,  magnanimity,  are  the  objects 
which,  in  thecourse  of  such  compositions,  are  presented  to  our  mirds, 
under  the  most  splendid  and  honourable  colours.   In  behalf  of  virtu 


.ect.  ZLir.]  EPIC  POETRY.  475 

>us  personages,  our  affections  are  engaged;  in  their  designs,  and 
their  distresses,  we  are  interested  ;  the  generous  and  public  affec- 
tions are  awakened  ;  the  mind  is  purified  from  sensual  and  mean 
pursuits,  and  accustomed  to  take  part  in  great  heroic  enterprises 
It  is  indeed  no  small  testimony  in  honour  of  virtue,  that  several  ol 
the  most  refined  and  elegant  entertainments  of  mankind,  such  as 
ihat  species  of  poetical  composition  which  we  now  consider,  must 
oe  grounded  on  moral  sentiments  and  impressions.  This  is  a  testi- 
mony of  such  weight,  that,  were  it  in  the  power  of  skeptical  philo- 
sophers to  weaken  the  force  of  those  reasonings,  which  establish 
the  essential  distinctions  between  vice  and  virtue,  the  writings  of 
epic  poets  alone  were  sufficient  to  refute  their  false  philosophy ; 
showing  by  that  appeal  which  they  constantly  make  to  the  feelings 
of  mankind  in  favour  of  virtue,  that  the  foundations  of  it  are  laid 
deep  and  strong  in  human  nature. 

The  general  strain  and  spirit  of  'pic  composition,  sufficiently 
mark  its  distinction  from  the  other  kinds  of  poetry.  In  pastoral 
writing,  the  reigning  idea  is  innocence  and  tranquillity.  Compas- 
sion is  the  great  object  of  tragedy ;  ridicule,  the  province  of  comedy. 
The  predominant  character  of  the  epic  is,  admiration  excited  by 
heroic  actions.  It  is  sufficiently  distinguished  from  history,  both 
by  its  poetical  form,  and  the  liberty  of  fiction  which  it  assumes. 
It  is  a  more  calm  composition  than  tragedy.  It  admits,  nay  requires, 
the  pathetic  and  the  violent,  on  particular  occasions  ;  but  the  pa- 
thetic is  not  expected  to  be  its  general  character.  It  requires, 
more  than  any  other  species  of  poetry,  a  grave,  equal,  and  support- 
ed dignity.  It  takes  in  a- greater  compass  of  time  and  action,  than 
dramatic  writing  admits;  and  thereby  allows  a  more  full  display 
of  characters.  Dramatic  writings  display  characters  chiefly  by 
means  of  sentiments  and  passions  ;  epic  poetry,  chiefly  by  means 
of  actions.  The  emotions,  therefore,  which  it  raises,  are  not  so 
violent,  but  they  are  more  prolonged.  These  are  the  general 
characteristics  of  this  species  of  composition.  But,  in  order  to  give 
a  more  particular  and  critical  view  of  it,  let  us  consider  the  epic 
poem  under  three  heads;  first,  with  respect  to  the  subject,  or  action ; 
secondly,  with  respect  to  the  actors,  or  characters;  and  lastly,  with 
respect  to  the  narration  of  the  poet. 

The  action,  or  subject  of  the  epic  poem,  must  have  three  pro- 
perties ;  it  must  be  one ;  it  must  be  great ;  it  must  be  interesting. 

First,  it  must  be  one  action,  or  enterprise,  which  the  poet  chooses 
for  his  subject.  I  have  frequently  had  occasion  to  remark  the 
importance  of  unity,  in  many  kinds  of  composition,  in  order  to 
make  a  full  and  strong  impression  upon  the  mind.  With  the  high- 
est reason,  Aristotle  insists  upon  this,  as  essential  to  epic  poetry  ; 
and  it  is,  indeed,  the  most  material  of  all  his  rules  respecting  it. 
For  it  is  certain,  that,  in  the  recital  of  heroic  adventures,  several 
scattered  and  independent  facts  can  never  affect  a  reader  so  deeply, 
nor  engage  his  attention  so  strongly,  as  a  tale  that  is  one  and  con- 
nected, where  the  several  incidents  hang  upon  one  another,  a&J 

60 


474  EPIC  POETRIl.  [lect.  xlii 

are  all  made  to  conspire  for  the  accomplishment  of  one  end.  In  a 
regular  epic,  the  more  sensible  this  unity  is  rendered  to  the  ima- 
gination, the  better  will  be  the  effect;  and,  for  this  reason,  as  Aris- 
totle has  observed,  it  is  not  sufficient  for  the  poet  to  confine  himself 
to  the  actions  of  one  man,  or  to  those  which  happened  during  a 
certain  period  of  time;  but  the  unity  must  lie  in  the  subject  itself; 
and  arise  from  all  the  parts  combining  into  one  whole. 

In  all  the  great  epic  poems,  unity  of  action  is  sufficiently  appa 
rent.  Virgil,  for  instance,  has  chosen  for  his  subject,  the  establish- 
ment of  iEneas  in  Italy.  From  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the 
poem,  this  object  is  ever  in  our  view,  and  links  all  the  parts  of  it 
together  with  full  connexion.  The  unity  of  the  Odyssey  is  of  the 
same  nature  ;  the  return  and  re-establishment  of  Ulysses  in  his  own 
country.  The  subject  of  Tasso,  is  the  recovery  of  Jerusalem  from 
the  infidels  ;  that  of  Milton,  the  expulsion  of  our  first  parents  from 
Paradise  ;  and  both  of  them  re  unexceptionable  in  the  unity  of  the 
story.  The  professed  subject  of  the  Iliad,  is  the  anger  of  Achilles, 
with  the  consequences  which  it  produced.  The  Greeks  carry  on 
many  unsuccessful  engagements  against  the  Trojans,  as  long  as 
they  are  deprived  of  the  assistance  of  Achilles.  Upon  his  being 
appeased  and  reconciled  to  Agamemnon,  victory  follows,  and  the 
poem  closes.  It  must  be  owned,  however,  that  the  unity,  or  con- 
necting principle,  is  not  quite  so  sensible  to  the  imagination  here 
as  in  the  iEneid.  For,  throughout  many  books  of  the  Iliad, 
Achilles  is  out  of  sight;  he  is  lost  in  inaction,  and  the  fancy  termi- 
nates on  no  other  object,  than  the  success  of  the  two  armies  whom 
we  see  contending  in  war. 

The  unity  of  the  epic  action  is  not  to  be  so  strictly  interpreted, 
as  if  it  excluded  all  episodes,  or  subordinate  actions.  It  is  neces- 
sary to  observe  here,  that  the  term  episode  is  employed  by  Aris- 
totle, in  a  different  sense  from  what  we  now  give  to  it.  It  was  a 
term  originally  applied  to  dramatic  poetry,  and  thence  transferred 
to  epic;  and  by  episodes, in  an  epic  poem,  it  should  seem  that  Aris- 
totle understood  the  extension  of  the  general  fable,  or  plan  of  the 
poem,  into  all  its  circumstances.  What  his  meaning  was,  is  indeed 
not  very  clear  ;  and  this  obscurity  has  occasioned  much  altercation 
among  critical  writers.  Bossu,  in  particular,  is  so  perplexed  upon 
this  subject,  as  to  be  almost  unintelligible.  But,  dismissing  so 
fruitless  a  controversy,  what  we  now  understand  by  episodes,  are 
certain  actions,  or  incidents,  introduced  into  the  narration,  connect- 
ed with  the  principal  action,  yet  not  of  such  importance  as  to  destroy, 
if  they  had  been  omitted,  the  main  subject  of  the  poem.  Of  this 
nature  are  the  interview  of  Hector  with  Andromache,  in  the  Iliad  ; 
the  story  of  Cacus,  and  that  of  Nisus  and  Euryalus,  in  the  JEneid; 
the  adventures  of  Tancred  with  Erminia  and  Clorinda,in  the  Jeru 
salem ;  and  the  prospect  of  his  descendants  exhibited  to  Adam,  in 
the  last  books  of  Paradise  Lost. 

Such  episodes  as  these,  are  not  only  permitted  to  an  epic  poet, 
but,  provided  they  be  properly  executed,  are  great  ornaments  to 
his  work,     'Hie  rules  regarding  them  are  the  following: 


tECT.  xlii.]  EPIC  POETRY.  475 

First,  they  must  be  naturally  introduced  ;  they  must  have  a  suf- 
ficient connexion  with  the  subject  of  the  poem ;  they  must  seem  in- 
ferior parts  that  belong  to  it ;  not  mere  appendages  stuck  to  it.  The 
episode  of  Olinda  and  Sophronia,  in  the  second  book  of  Tasso's  Jeru- 
salem, is  faulty,  by  transgressing  this  rule.  It  is  too  much  detached 
from  the  rest  of  the  work :  and,  being  introduced  so  near  the  opening 
of  the  poem,  misleads  the  reader  into  an  expectation  that  it  is  to  be  of 
6ome  future  consequence  ;  whereas,  it  proves  to  be  connected  with 
nothing  that  follows.  In  proportion  as  any  episode  is  slightly  related 
to  the  main  subject,  it  should  always  be  the  shorter.  The  passion 
of  Dido  in  the  iEneid,  and  the  snares  of  Armida  in  the  Jerusalem, 
which  are  expanded  so  fully  in  these  poems,  cannot  with  propriety 
be  called  episodes.  They  are  constituent  parts  of  the  work,  and 
form  a  considerable  share  of  the  intrigue  of  the  poem. 

In  the  next  place,  episodes  ought  to  present  to  us  objects  of  a 
different  kind  from  those  which  go  before,  and  those  which  follow  in 
the  course  of  the  poem.  For,  it  is  principally  for  the  sake  of  va- 
riety, that  episodes  are  introduced  into  an  epic  composition.  In  so 
long  a  work,  they  tend  to  diversify  the  subject,  and  to  relieve  the 
reader,  by  shifting  the  scene.  In  the  midst  of  combats,  therefore, 
an  episode  of  the  martial  kind  would  be  out  of  place;  whereas, 
Hector's  visit  to  Andromache  in  the  Iliad,  andErminia's  adventure 
with  the  shepherd  in  the  seventh  book  of  the  Jerusalem,  afford  us  a 
well-judged  and  pleasing  retreat  from  camps  and  battles. 

Lastly,  as  an  episode  is  a  professed  embellishment,  it  ought  lo 
be  particularly  elegant  and  well  finished;  and,  accordingly, it  is, 
for  the  most  part,  in  pieces  of  this  kind,  that  poets  put  forth  their 
strength.  The  episodes  of  Teribazus  and  Ariana,  in  Leonidas,  and 
of  the  death  of  Hercules,  in  the  Epigoniad,  are  the  two  greatest 
beauties  in  these  poems. 

The  unity  of  the  epic  action  necessarily  supposes,  that  the  action 
be  entire  and  complete;  that  is,  as  Aristotle  well  expresses  it,  that 
it  have  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end.  Either  by  relating  the 
whole,  in  his  own  person,  or  by  introducing  some  of  his  actors  to 
relate  what  had  passed  before  the  opening  of  the  poem,  the  author 
must  always  contrive  to  give  us  full  information  of  every  thing  that 
belongs  to  his  subjec;;  he  must  not  leave  our  curiosity  in  any  ar- 
ticle ungratified ;  he  must  bring  us  precisely  to  the  accomplishment 
of  his  plan,  and  then  conclude. 

The  second  property  of  the  epic  action  is,  that  it  be  great ;  that 
it  have  sufficient  splendour  and  importance,  both  to  fix  our  atten- 
tion, and  to  justify  the  magnificent  apparatus  which  the  poet  bestows 
upon  it.  This  is  so  evidently  requisite  as  not  to  require  illustra- 
tion :  and,  indeed,  hardly  any  who  have  attempted  epic  poetry, 
have  failed  in  choosing  some  subject  sufficiently  important,  either 
by  the  nature  of  the  action,  or  by  the  fame  of  the  personages  con- 
cerned in  it. 

It  contributes  to  the  grandeur  of  the  epic  subject,  that  *  Ise  not  of 
a  modern  date,  nor  fall  within  any  period  of  history  witu  which  we 
are  intimately  acquainted.     Both  Lucan  and  Voltaire  have,  in  the 


476  EPIC  POETRY.  [lect.  xlii 

choice  of  their  subjects,  transgressed  this  rule,  and  they  have,  upon 
that  account,  succeeded  worse.  Antiquity  is  favourable  to  those 
nigh  and  august  ideas,  whi^h  epic  poetry  is  designed  to  raise.  It 
tends  to  aggrandize,  in  our  imagination,  both  persons  and  events  ; 
and  what  is  still  more  material,  it  allows  the  poet  the  liberty  of 
adorning  his  subject  by  means  of  fiction.  Whereas,  as  soon  as  he 
comes  within  the  verge  of  real  and  authenticated  history,  this  liberty 
is  abridged.  He  must  either  confine  himself  wholly,  as  Lucan  has 
done,  to  strict  historical  truth,  at  the  expense  of  rendering  his  story 
jejune  ;  or  if  he  goes  beyond  it,  like  Voltaire  in  his  Henriade,  this 
disadvantage  follows,  that,  in  well-known  events,  the  true  and  the 
fictitious  parts  of  the  plan  do  not  naturally  mingle  and  incorporate 
wit'i  each  other.  These  observations  cannot  be  applied  to  dramatic 
writing ;  where  the  personages  are  exhibited  to  us,  not  so  much 
that  we  may  admire,  as  that  we  may  love  or  pity  them.  Such 
passions  are  much  more  consistent  with  the  familiar  historical 
knowledge  of  the  persons  who  are  to  be  the  objects  of  them  ;  and 
even  require  them  to  be  displayed  in  the  light,  and  with  the  failings, 
of  ordinary  men.  Modern  and  well-known  history,  therefore,  may 
furnish  very  proper  materials  for  tragedy.  But  for  epic  poetry, 
where  heroism  is  the  ground-work,  and  where  the  object  in  view 
is  to  excite  admiration,  ancient  or  traditionary  history  is  assuredly 
the  safest  region.  There  the  author  may  lay  hold  on  names,  and 
characters,  and  events,  not  wholly  unknown,  on  which  to  build  his 
story,  while,  at  the  same  time,  by  reason  of  the  distance  of  the  pe- 
riod, or  of  the  remoteness  of  the  scene,  sufficient  license  is  left  him 
for  fiction  and  invention. 

The  third  property  required  in  the  epic  poem  is,  that  it  be  inter- 
esting. It  is  not  sufficient  for  this  purpose  that  it  be  great.  For 
deeds  of  mere  valour,  how  heroic  soever,  may  prove  cold  and  tire 
some.  Much  will  depend  on  the  happy  choice  of  some  subject, 
which  shall,  by  its  nature,  interest  the  public ;  as  when  the  poet  se- 
lects for  his  hero,  one  who  is  the  founder,  or  the  deliverer,  or  the 
r£VOurite  of  his  nation ;  or  when  he  writes  of  achievements  that 
have  been  highly  celebrated,  or  have  been  connected  with  important 
consequences  to  any  public  cause.  Most  of  the  great  epic  poems 
are  abundantly  fortunate  in  this  respect,  and  must  have  been  very 
interesting  to  those  ages  and  countries  in  which  they  were  composed. 

But  the  chief  circumstance  which  renders  an  epic  poem  interest- 
ing, and  which  tends  to  interest,  not  one  age  or  country  alone,  but 
all  readers,  is  the  skilful  conduct  of  the  author  in  the  management 
of  his  subject.  He  must  so  contrive  his  plan,  as  that  it  shall  com- 
prehend many  affecting  incidents.  He  must  not  dazzle  us  perpetu- 
ally with  valiant  achievements ;  for  all  readers  tire  of  constant  fight- 
ing and  battles ;  but  he  must  study  to  touch  our  hearts.  He  may 
sometimes  be  awful  and  august;  he  must  often  be  tender  and  pathet- 
ic; he  must  give  us  gentle  and  pleasing  scenes  of  love,  friendship, 
\nd  affection.  The  more  an  epic  poem  abounds  with  situations 
■vhich  awaken  the  feelings  of  humanity,  the  more  interesting  it  is 


umt.  xlii.1  EPIC  POETRY.  477 

and  these  form  always,  the  favourite  passages  of  the  work.    I  know 
no  epic  poets  so  happy  in  this  respect  as  Virgil  and  Tasso. 

Much,  too,  depends  on  the  characters  of  the  heroes,  for  rendering 
the  poem  interesting;  that  they  be  such  as  shall  strongly  attach 
the  readers,  and  make  them  take  part  in  the  dangers  which  the  he- 
roes encounter.  These  dangers,  or  obstacles,  form  what  is  called 
the  nodus,  or  the  intrigue  of  the  epic  poem  ;  in  the  judicious  con- 
duct of  which  consists  much  of  the  poet's  art.  He  must  rouse  our 
attention,  by  a  prospect  of  the  difficulties  which  seem  to  threaten 
disappointment  to  the  enterprise  of  his  favourite  personages;  he 
must  make  these  difficulties  grow  and  thicken  upon  us  by  degrees  ; 
till,  after  having  kept  us,  for  some  time,  in  a  state  of  agitation  and  sus- 
pense, he  paves  the  way,  by  a  proper  preparation  of  incidents,  for 
the  winding  up  of  the  plot,  in  a  natural  and  probable  manner.  It  is 
plain,  that  every  tale  which  is  designed  to  engage  attention,  must 
be  conducted  on  a  plan  of  this  sort. 

A  question  has  been  moved,  whether  the  nature  of  the  epic  poem 
does  not  require  that  it  should  always  end  successfully  ?  Most  critics 
are  inclined  to  think,  that  a  successful  issue  is  the  most  proper ;  and 
they  appear  to  have  reason  on  their  side.  An  unhappy  conclusion 
depresses  the  mind,  and  is  opposite  to  the  elevating  emotions  which 
belong  to  this  species  of  poetry.  Terror  and  compassion  are  the 
proper  subjects  of  tragedy ;  but  as  the  epic  poem  is  cf  larger  com- 
pass and  extent,  it  were  too  much,  if,  after  the  difficulties  and  trou 
bles  which  commonly  abound  in  the  progress  of  the  poem,  the  au 
thor  should  bring  them  all  at  last  to  an  unfortunate  issue.  Accord- 
ingly, the  general  practice  of  epic  poets  is  on  the  side  of  a  prosper- 
ous conclusion  ;  not,  however,  without  some  exceptions.  For  two 
authors  of  great  name,  Lucan  and  Milton,  have  held  a  contrary 
course;  the  one  concluding  with  the  subversion  of  the  Roman  lib- 
erty ;  the  other,  with  the  expulsion  of  man  from  Paradise. 

With  regard  to  the  time  or  duration  of  the  epic  action,  no  precise 
boundaries  can  be  ascertained.  A  considerable  extent  is  always  al- 
lowed to  it,  as  it  does  not  necessarily  depend  on  those  violent  pas- 
sions which  can  be  supposed  to  have  only  a  short  continuance.  The 
Iliad,  which  is  formed  upon  the  anger  of  Achilles,  has,  with  propri- 
ety, the  shortest  duration  of  any  of  the  great  epic  poems.  Accord- 
ing to  Bossu,the  action  lasts  no  longer  than  forty -seven  clays.  The 
action  of  the  Odyssey,  computed  from  the  taking  of  Troy  to  the 
peace  of  Ithaca,  extends  to  eight  years  and  a  half;  and  the  action  of 
the  iEneid.,  computed  in  the  same  way,  from  the  taking  of  Troy  to 
the  death  of  Turnus,  includes  about  six  years.  But  if  we  measure 
the  period  only  of  the  poet's  own  narration,  or  compute  from  the 
time  in  which  the  hero  makes  his  first  appearance  to  the  conclusion, 
the  duration  of  both  these  last  poems  is  brought  within  a  much 
smaller  compass.  The  Odyssey,  beginning  with  Ulysses  in  the  isl- 
and of  Calypso,  comprehends  fifty-eight  days  only;  and  theiEneid, 
beginning  with  the  storm,  which  throws  iEneas  upon  the  coast  of 
Africa,  is  reckoned  to  include,  at  the  most,  a  year  and  some  months. 

Having  1hus  treated  of  the  epic  action,  or  the  subject  of  the 
3Z 


478  EPIC  POETRY.  [lect.  xlii 

poem,  I  proceed  next  to  make  some  observations  on  the  actors  01 
personages. 

As  it  is  the  business  of  an  epic  poet  to  copy  after  nature,  and  to 
form  a  probable  and  interesting  tale,  he  must  study  to  give  all  his  per- 
sonages proper  and  well-supported  characters,  such  as  display  the 
'eatures  of  human  nature.  This  is  what  Aristotle  calls  giving  man-" 
ners  to  the  poem.  It  is  by  no  means  necessary,  that  all  his  actors 
be  morally  good  ;  imperfect,  nay,  vicious  characters,  may  find  a 
proper  place ;  though  the  nature  of  epic  poetry  seems  to  require, 
that  the  principal  figures  exhibited  should  be  such  as  tend  to  raise 
admiration  and  love,  rather  than  hatred  or  contempt.  But  whatever 
the  character  be  which  a  poet  gives  to  any  of  his  actors,  he  must 
take  care  to  preserve  it  uniform,  and  consistent  with  itself.  Every 
thing  which  that  person  says,  or  does,  must  be  suited  to  it,  and  must 
serve  to  distinguish  him  from  any  other. 

Poetic  characters  may  be  divided  into  two  kinds,  general  and 
particular.  General  characters  are,  such  as  are  wise,  brave, 
virtuous,  without  any  farther  distinction.  Particular  characters 
express  the  species  of  bravery,  of  wisdom,  of  virtue,  for  whjch  any 
one  is  eminent.  They  exhibit  the  peculiar  features  which  distin- 
guish one  individual  from  another,  which  mark  the  difference  of  the 
same  moral  quality  in  different  men,  according  as  it  is  combined  with 
other  dispositions  in  their  temper.  In  drawing  such  particular 
characters,  genius  is  chiefly  exerted.  How  far  each  of  the  three 
great  epic  poets  have  distinguished  themselves  in  this  part  of  com- 
position, I  shall  have  occasion  afterwards  to  show,  when  I  come  to 
make  remarks  upon  their  works.  It  is  sufficient  now  to  mention, 
that  it  is  in  this  part  Homer  has  principally  excelled ;  Tasso  has 
come  the  nearest  to  Homer;  and  Virgil  has  been  the  most  deficient 

It  has  been  the  practice  of  all  epic  poets,  to  select  some  one  per- 
sonage, whom  they  distinguish  above  all  the  rest,  and  make  the  hero 
of  the  tale.  This  is  considered  as  essential  to  epic  composition, 
and  is  attended  with  several  advantages.  It  renders  the  unity  of  the 
subject  more  sensible,  when  there  is  one  principal  figure,  to  which, 
as  to  a  centre,  all  the  rest  refer.  It  tends  to  interest  us  more  in  the 
enterprise  which  is  carried  on ;  and  it  gives  the  poet  an  opportunity 
of  exerting  his  talents  for  adorning  and  displaying  one  character, 
with  peculiar  splendour.  It  has  been  asked,  Who  then  is  the  hero 
of  Paradise  Lost  ?  The  devil,  it  has  been  answered  by  some  critics ; 
and,  in  consequence  of  this  idea,  much  ridicule  and  censure  has 
been  thrown  upon  Milton.  But  they  have  mistaken  that  author's 
intention, by  proceeding  upon  a  supposition,  that,  in  the  conclusion 
of  the  poem,  the  hero  must  needs  be  triumphant.  Whereas  Milton 
followed  a  different  plan,  and  has  given  a  tragic  conclusion  to  a  po- 
em, otherwise  epic  in  its  form.  For  Adam  is  undoubtedly  his  hero ; 
that  is,  the  capital  and  most  interesting  figure  in  his  poem. 

Besides  human  actors,  there  are  personages  of  another  kind,  thai 
usually  occupy  no  small  place  in  epic  poetry;  I  mean  the  gods,  or 
supernatural  beings.  This  brings  us  to  the  consideration  of  what  is 
called  the  machinery  of  the  epic  poem;  the  most  nice  and  difficult 


lect.  xlii.]  EPIC  POETRY.  479 

part  of  the  subject.  Critics  appear  to  me  to  have  gone  to  extremes 
on  both  sides.  Almost  all  the  French  critics  decide  in  favour  of 
machinery,  as  essential  to  the  constitution  of  an  epic  poem.  They 
quote  that  sentence  of  Petronius  Arbiter,  as  if  it  were  an  oracle, 
•per  ambages,  Deorumque  ministeria,  prsecipitandus  est  liber  spirit- 
us  ;'  and  hold  that  though  a  poem  had  every  other  requisite  that 
could  be  demanded,  yet  it  could  not  be  ranked  in  the  epic  class, 
unless  the  main  action  was  carried  on  by  the  intervention  of  the 
gods.  This  decision  seems  to  be  founded  on  no  principle  or  reason 
whatever,  unless  a  superstitious  reverence  for  the  practice  of  Homer 
and  Virgil.  These  poets  very  properly  embellished  their  story  by 
the  traditional  tales  and  popular  legends  of  their  own  country ;  ac- 
cording to  which,all  the  great  transactions  of  the  heroic  times  were 
intermixed  with  the  fables  of  their  deities.  But  does  it  thence  fol- 
low, that  in  other  countries,  and  other  ages,  where  there  is  not  the 
like  advantage  of  current  superstition,  and  popular  credulity,  epic 
poetry  must  be  wholly  confined  to  antiquated  fictions  and  fairy  tales  ? 
Lucan  has  composed  a  very  spirited  poem,  certainly  of  the  epic 
kind,  where  neither  gods  nor  supernatural  beings  are  at  all  employ- 
ed. The  author  of  Leonidas  has  made  an  attempt  of  the  same  kind, 
not  without  success ;  and  beyond  doubt,  wherever  a  poet  gives  us 
a  regular  heroic  story,  well  connected  in  its  parts,  adorned  with 
characters,  and  supported  with  proper  dignity  and  elevation,  though 
his  agents  be  every  one  of  them  human,  he  has  fulfilled  the  chief 
requisites  of  this  sort  of  composition,  and  has  a  just  title  to  be  class- 
ed witn  epic  writers. 

But  though  I  cannot  admit  that  machinery  is  necessary  or  essen- 
tial to  the  epic  plan,  neither  can  I  agree  with  some  late  critics  of 
considerable  name,  who  are  for  excluding  it  totally,  as  inconsistent 
with  that  probability  and  impression  of  reality  which  they  think 
should  reign  in  this  kind  of  writing.*  Mankind  do  not  consider 
poetical  writings  with  so  philosophical  an  eye.  They  seek  enter- 
tainment from  them  ;  and  for  the  bulk  of  readers,  indeed  for  almost 
all  men,  the  marvellous  has  a  great  charm.  It  gratifies  and  fills  the 
imagination,  and  gives  room  for  many  a  striking  and  sublime  de- 
scription. In  epic  poetry,  in  particular,  where  admiration  and  lofty 
ideas  are  supposed  to  reign,  the  marvellous  and  supernatural  find, 
if  any  where,  their  proper  place.  They  both  enable  the  poet  to 
aggrandize  his  subject,  by  means  of  those  august  and  solemn  objects 
which  religion  introduces  into  it;  and  they  allow  him  to  enlarge 
and  diversify  his  plan,  by  comprehending  within  it  het  ven,  and 
earth,  ind  hell,  men  and  invisible  beings,  and  the  whole  circle  ot 
the  universe. 

At  the  same  time,  in  the  use  of  this  supernatural  machinery,  it  be- 
comes a  poet  to  be  temperate  and  prudent.  He  is  not  at  liberty  to 
invent  wh&i:  system  of  the  marvellous  he  pleases.  It  must  always 
have  some  foundation  in  popular  belief.  Hf  must  avail  himself,  in 
a  decent  manner,  either  of  the  religious  faith,  or  the  superstitious 


•  See  Elements  of  Criticism,  ch.  22. 


480  EPIC  POETRY.  [lect.  xlii. 

credulity  of  the  country  wherein  he  lives,  or  of  winch  he  writes,  so 
as  to  give  an  air  of  probability  to  events  which  are  most  contrary 
to  the  common  course  of  nature.  Whatever  machinery  he  em- 
ploys, he  must  take  care  not  to  overload  us  with  it ;  not  to  with- 
draw human  actions  and  manners  too  much  from  view,  nor  to  ob- 
Ecure  them  under  a  cloud  of  incredible  fictions.  He  must  always 
remember,  that  his  chief  business  is  to  relate  to  men,  the  actions  and 
the  exploits  of  men  ;  that  it  is  by  these  principally  he  is  to  interest 
us,  and  to  touch  our  hearts  ;  and  that  if  probability  be  altogether 
banished  from  his  work,  it  can  never  make  a  deep  or  a  lasting  im- 
pression. Indeed,  I  know  nothing  more  difficult  in  epic  poetry, 
than  to  adjust  properly  the  mixture  of  the  marvellous  with  the  pro- 
bable ;  so  as  to  gratify  and  amuse  us  with  the  one,  without  sacrifi- 
cing the  other.  I  need  hardly  observe,  that  these  observations  af- 
fect not  the  conduct  of  Milton's  work;  whose  plan  being  altogether 
theological,  his  supernatural  beings  form  not  the  machinery,  but 
are  the  principal  actors  in  the  poem. 

With  regard  to  allegorical  personages,  fame,  discord,  love,  and 
the  like,  it  may  be  safely  pronounced,  that  they  form  the  worst 
machinery  of  any.  In  description  they  are  sometimes  allowa- 
ble, and  may  serve  for  embellishment;  but  they  should  never 
be  permitted  to  bear  any  share  in  the  action  of  the  poem.  For 
being  plain  and  declared  fictions,  mere  names  of  general  ideas,  to 
which  even  fancy  cannot  attribute  any  existence  as  persons,  if  they 
are  introduced  as  mingling  with  human  actors,  an  intolerable  con- 
fusion of  shadows  and  realities  arises,  and  all  consistency  of  action 
is  utterly  destroyed. 

In  the  narration  of  the  poet,  which  is  the  last  head  that  remains 
to  be  considered,  it  is  not  material,  whether  he  relate  the  whole 
story  in  his  own  character,  or  introduce  some  of  his  personages  to 
relate  any  part  of  the  action  that  had  passed  before  the  poem  opens. 
Homer  follows  the  on*  method  in  lis  Iliad,  and  the  other  in  his 
Odyssey.  Virgil  has,  in  this  respect,  imitated  the  conduct  of  the 
Odyssey  ;  Tasso,  that  of  the  Iliad.  The  chief  advantage  which  ari- 
ses from  any  of  the  actors  being  employed  to  relate  part  of  the  sto- 
ry, is,  that  if  allows  the  poet,  if  he  chooses  it,  to  open  with  some  in- 
teresting situation  of  affairs,  informing  us  afterwards  of  what  had 
passed  before  that  period  ;  and  gives  him  the  greater  liberty  of 
spreadingout  such  parts  of  the  subject  as  he  is  inclined  to  dwell  upon 
in  person,  and  of  comprehending  the  rest  within  a  short  recital. 
Where  the  subject  is  of  great  extent,  and  comprehends  the  transac- 
tions of  several  years, as  in  the  Odyssey  and  the^Eneid,  this  method 
therefore  seems  preferable.  When  the  subject  is  of  smaller  compass, 
and  shorter  duration,  as  in  the  Iliad  and  the  Jerusalem,  the  poet 
may,  without  disadvantage,  relate  the  whole  in  his  o\yn  person. 

In  the  proposition  of  the  subject,  the  invocation  of  the  nurse,  and 
other  ceremonies  of  the  introduction,  poets  may  vary  at  their  plea- 
sure. It  is  perfectly  trifling  to  make  these  little  formalities  the  object 
of  precise  rule,  any  farther,  than  that  the  subject  of  the  work  should 
nlways  be  clearly  proposed,  and  without  affected  or  unsuitable  pomjj. 


LECT.  XLII.] 


QUESTIONS. 


481 


For,  according  to  Horace's  noted  rule,  no  introduction  should  ever 
set  out  too  high,  or  promise  too  much,  lest  the  author  should  not  fulfil 
the  expectations  he  has  raised. 

What  is  of  most  importance  in  the  tenour  of  the  narration  is,  that 
it  be  perspicuous,  animated,  and  enriched  with  all  the  beauties  of 
poetry.  No  sort  of  composition  requires  more  strength,  dignity,  and 
fire,  than  the  epic  poem.  It  is  the  region  within  which  we  look  for 
every  thing  that  is  sublime  in  description,  tender  in  sentiment,  and 
bold  and  lively  in  expression ;  and,  therefore,  though  an  authors 
plan  should  be  faultless,  and  his  story  ever  so  well  conducted,  yet,  il 
he  be  feeble,  or  flat  in  style,  destitute  of  affecting  scenes,  and  defi- 
cient in  poetical  colouring,  he  can  have  no  success.  The  ornaments 
which  epic  poetry  admits,  must  all  be  of  the  grave  and  chaste  kind. 
Nothing  that  is  loose,  ludicrous,  or  affected,  finds  any  place  there. 
All  the  objects  which  it  presents  ought  to  be  either  great,  or  tender, 
or  pleasing.  Descriptions  of  disgusting  or  shocking  objects,  should, 
as  much  as  possible,  be  avoided ;  and,  therefore,  the  fable  of  the 
Harpies,  in  the  third  book  of  the  iEneid,  and  the  allegory  of  Sin  and 
Death,  in  the  second  book  of  Paradise  Lost,  had  been  better  omitted 
in  these  celebrated  poems. 


Q,UESTIOtfS. 


Of  what  does  it  now  remain  to  treat? 
With  which  does  our  author  begin? 
On  what  shall  this  lecture  be  employ 
ed  ?  After  which,  what  shall  be  done  ? 
Of  the  epic  poem,  what  is  allowed  ? 
What  is,  unquestionably,  the  highest 
effort  of  poetical  genius  ?  Hence,  what 
follows?  On  this  subject,  what  have 
critics  displayed?  By  tedious  disquisi- 
tions, what  have  they  done  ?  By  Bos- 
su's  definition,  what  is  it  ?  Of  this  defi- 
nition, what  is  observed  ?  What  does 
he  say  is  the  first  thing  which  either  a 
writer  of  fables,  or  of  heroic  poems, 
does  ?  Next,  what  does  he  do  ?  And 
lastly,  what  ?  Of  this  idea,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  Repeat  the  whole  account  of 
the  origin  of  the  Iliad,  according  to 
Bossu.  What  is  said  of  him  who  can 
believe  Homer  to  have  proceeded  in 
this  manner ;  and  what  may  one,  with 
great  certainty,  pronounce  ?  Of  what 
can  no  person  of  taste  entertain  a 
doubt  ?  How  is  this  illustrated  ?  Be- 
sides the  instruction  which  Bossu  as- 
signs to  the  Iliad,  what  other  may  as 
naturally  be  considered  the  moral  of 
that  poem  ?  What  is  the  subject  of  the 
poem?  How  does  Jupiter  avenge 
Achilles ;  and  what  is  t.be  effect  of 
Achilles'  continued  obstinacy  ?  What 
is  the  plain  account  of  tire  nature  of  an 


epic  poem  ?  Of  this  definition,  what  is 
observed ;  and  what  does  it  compre- 
hend? But  what  is  the  pedantry  of  cri- 
ticism ?  With  minerals,  plants,  and  ani- 
mals, what  can  we  do ;  and  why  ?  But 
with  regard  to  works  of  taste  and  ima- 
gination, what  is  observed  ?  When  em 
ployed  in  such  attempts,  into  what 
does  criticism  degenerate  ?  To  class 
what  poems,  therefore,  with  tire  Iliad 
and  thejEneid,  does  our  author  not  scru- 
ple ?  They  are,  undoubtedly,  all  of 
what  character  ?  What  cannot  our  au- 
thor allow ;  yet,  what  is  certain  ?  Of 
its  effect  in  promoting  virtue,  what  in 
observed  ;  and  what  remark  follows  ? 
From  what  does  its  effect  arise  ?  What 
is  the  end  which  it  proposes  ?  How, 
only,  can  this  be  accomplished  ;  and 
why?  What  objects,  in  the  course  of 
such  compositions,  are  presented  to  our 
minds,  under  the  most  honourable  co- 
lours ;  and  consequently,  hew  are  we 
affected?  What  is,  indeed,  no  small 
testimony  in  honour  of  virtue  ?  Of  the 
weight  of  this  testimony,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  What  sufficiently  mark  its  dis- 
tinction from  other  kinds  of  poetrj  ? 
How  is  this  remark  illustrated?  By 
what  is  it  sufficiently  distinguished  from 
history;  and  from  tragedy?  What 
does  it  require  ?  How  does  it  compart 


JS1  a 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  XI. II 


-villi  dramatic  poetry?  But,  in  order  to 
give  a  more  particular  and  critical 
view  of  it,  under  what  three  heads 
shall  we  consider  it?  What  three  pro- 
perties must  the  action,  or  subject  of 
the  epic  poem,  have  ?  To  remark  what, 
has  our  author  had  frequent  occasion? 
With  the  highest  reason,  on  what  does 
Aristotle  insist ;  and  why  ?  In  a  regu- 
lar epic,  how  will  the  effect  be  rendered 
more  perfect ;  and  for  this  reason,  what 
has  Aristotle  observed  ?  How  is  the  re- 
mark fully  illustrated,  that  in  all  the 
great  epic  poems,  unity  of  action  is 
sufficiently  apparent  ?  What  does  not 
the  unity  of  the  epic  exclude?  What 
is  it  necessary  here  to  observe?  To 
what  was  the  term  originally  applied  ; 
and  whence  transferred?  What  did 
Aristotle  understand  by  episodes,  in 
an  epic  poem?  What  has  been  the 
effect  of  the  obscurity  of  his  meaning? 
But,  dismissing  so  fruitless  a  controver- 
sy, what  do  we  now  understand  by 
them  ?  Of  this  nature,  what  examples 
are  given  ?  Of  such  episodes  as  these, 
what  is  observed?  What  is  the  first 
rule  given,  regarding  them  ?  What 
episode  is  faulty,  by  transgressing  this 
rule ;  and  of  it,  what  is  remarked  ?  In 
proportion  to  what,  should  episodes  al- 
ways be  the  shorter?  What  cannot, 
with  propriety,  be  called  episodes ;  and 
what  are  they?  In  the  next  place, 
what  ought  episodes  to  present  to  us ; 
and  why  ?  In  so  long  a  work,  what  is 
their  effect?  What  illustrations  of  this 
remark  follow?  What  is  the  last  direc- 
tion regarding  the  episode ;  and  what 
instances  are  mentioned  ?  What  does 
the  unity  of  the  epic  action  necessarily 
suppose?  By  this,  what  is  meant? 

What  is  the  second  property  of  the 
epic  action?  Of  this,  what  is  observed  ? 
What  contributes  to  the  grandeur  of 
the  epic  subject  ?  Who,  in  the  choice 
of  their  subjects,  have  transgressed  this 
rule :  and  what  is  the  consequence  ? 
To  what  is  antiquity  favourable  ;  and 
why  ?  When  is  this  liberty  abridged ; 
and  what  must  he,  consequently,  do; 
or,  if  he  goes  beyond  it,  what  disadvan- 
tage follows  ?  Why  cannot  these  ob- 
servations be  applied  to  dramatic  wri- 
ting? Of  such  passions,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  What  may,  therefore,  furnish 
very  proper  materials  for  tragedy? 
But,  for  epic  poetry,  what  is  the  safest 
"egion    and  why  ?    What  is  the  third 


property  required  in  the  epic  poem  t 
Why  is  it  not  sufficient  for  this  purpose 
that  it  be  great  ?  On  what  will  much 
depend  ;  and  what  examples  are  men- 
tioned ?  Of  most  of  the  great  epic  po- 
ems, what,  in  this  respect,  is  observed  I 
But  what  is  the  chief  circumstance 
which  renders  an  epic  poem  interest- 
ing? How  is  this  fully  illustrated  ? 
What  epic  poets  are  the  most  happy 
in  this  respect  ?  On  what,  also,  does 
much  depend,  for  rendering  the  poem 
interesting?  What  effect  must  they 
produce  ?  What  do  these  dangers,  or 
obstacles,  form;  and  in  the  judicious 
conduct  of  them,  consists  what?  In 
what  manner  must  he  conduct  it  ? 
What  is  manifest  ?  What  question  has 
been  moved  ?  To  what  opinion  are 
most  critics  inclined?  Wrhy  do  they 
appear  to  have  reason  on  their  side  ? 
What  illustration  of  this  remark  fol- 
lows ?  To  this  general  practice,  what 
two  exceptions  have  we;  and  how  do 
they  conclude?  With  regard  to  the  du- 
ration of  the  epic  action,  what  is  ob- 
served? Why  is  a  considerable  extent 
always  allowed  to  it?  What  is  the  du- 
ration of  the  action  of  the  Iliad,  of  the 
Odyssey,  and  of  the  iEneid  ?  How  may 
the  duration  of  two  of  these  poems  be 
brought  into  a  much  smaller  compass  ? 
Within  what  compass  are  they  thus 
brought  ?  Having  treated  of  the  epic 
action,  to  what  does  our  author  next 
proceed  ?  As  it  is  the  business  of  the 
epic  poet  to  copy  after  nature,  and  to 
form  a  probable  and  interesting  talc, 
what  must  he  study  to  do  ?  What  does 
Aristotle  call  this?  What  is,  by  no 
means,  necessary  ?  Though  vicious 
characters  may  find  a  proper  place, 
yet,  what  does  the  nature  of  epic  poe- 
try seem  to  require  ?  But  whatever 
the  character  of  his  actors  be,  about 
what  must  he  take  care  ;  and  for  what 
reason?  Into  what  two  kinds  may 
poetic  characters  be  divided?  What 
are  general  characters;  what  are  par- 
ticular characters ;  and  what  do  they 
exhibit?  In  drawing  such  particular 
characters,  what  is  chiefly  exerted  ? 
What  remark  follows  ?  What  is  it  at 
present  sufficient  to  do  ?  What  has 
been  the  practice  of  all  epic  poets?  As 
this  is  considered  essential  to  epic  com- 
position, with  what  advantages  is  it 
attended?  Wliat  question  has  beer 
asked ;  how  answered ;  and  what  re 


LECT.  XLIII.] 


QUESTIONS. 


481  I 


mark  follows  %  Besides  human  actors, 
what  other  personages,  usually,  occupy 
no  small  place  in  epic  poetry  1  To 
what  does  this  bring  us  1  On  this  sub- 
ject, what  has  been  the  opinion  of 
French  critics;  and  of  this  decision, 
what    is  observed?    What  did  these 

[)oets  do  ;  but  what  does  not  thence  lbl- 
ow  1  How  is  this  illustrated  from  Lu- 
ean,  and  from  the  author  of  Leonidas  1 
But  though  our  author  cannot  admit 
that  machinery  is  essential  to  the  epic 
plan,  with  what  opinion  can  he  not 
agree ;  and  why  1  What  advantages 
does  it  afford  1  At  the  same  time,  how 
must  this  machinery  be  used ;  and 
what  must  the  poet  always  remem- 
ber? What  remarks  follow  ?  With  re- 
gard to  allegorical  personages,  what  is 
observed  ?  Where  are  they  sometimes 
allowable  ?  In  what  should  they  never 
be  permitted  to  bear  any  part ;  and 
why  %  In  the  narration  of  the  poet, 
what  is  not  material ;  and  why  ?  What 
is  the  chief  advantage  that  arises  from 
the  latter  method  1  When  is  this  me- 
thod, therefore,  preferable;  and  when 


is  the  former  ?  In  the  invocation  of  the 
muse,  what  is  observed  1  What  is  per- 
fectly trifling;  and  why?  What  is  of 
most  importance  in  the  tenour  of  the 
narration ;  and  what  remark  follows  ? 
It  is  the  region  within  which  we  look 
for  what;  and,  therefore,  what  fol- 
lows? Of  what  kind  must  the  orna- 
ments^ofepk2poetryl2ej_a£d_wjiyj^ 


ANALYSIS. 

Epic  poetry. 

1.  Bossu's  definition. 

a.  Illustrated. 

b.  Criticised. 

2.  The  author's  definition. 
a.  Its  design. 

3.  The  character  of  the  epic  poem. 

a.  The  action. 

a.  Unity. 

(a.)  Illustrated. 
(b.)  Episodes  not  excluded. 
Their  requisites. 

b.  Greatness  requisite. 

c.  It  must  be  interesting1. 

4.  The  characters  to   be  introduced  in 

epic  poetry. 
A.  General  and  particular. 

b.  The  hero. 

c.  The  machinery. 

5.  The  narration. 


LECTURE   XLIII. 


HOMER'S  ILIAD  AND  ODYSSEY.— VIRGIL'S  ^ENEID. 

As  the  epic  poem  is  universally  allowed  to  possess  the  highest 
rank  among  poetical  works,  it  merits  a  particular  discussion. 
Having  treated  of  the  nature  of  this  composition,  and  the  principal 
rules  relating  to  it,  I  proceed  to  make  some  observations  on  the  most 
distinguished  epic  poems,  ancient  and  modern. 

Homer  claims,  on  every  account,  our  first  attention,  as  the  father 
not  only  of  epic  poetry,  but,  in  some  measure,  of  poetry  in  general. 
Whoever  sits  down  to  read  Homer,  must  consider  that  he  is  going 
to  read  the  most  ancient  book  in  the  world,  next  to  the  Bible. 
Without  making  this  reflection,  he  cannot  enter  into  the  spirit,  nor 
relish  the  composition  of  the  author.  He  is  not  to  look  for  the  cor- 
rectness and  elegance  of  the  Augustan  age.  He  must  divest  him- 
self of  our  modern  ideas  of  dignity  and  refinement,  and  transport 
his  imagination  almost  three  thousand  years  back  in  the  history  of 
Jiankind.  What  he  is  to  expect,  is  a  picture  of  the  ancient  world. 
He  must  reckon  upon  finding  characters  and  manners,  that  retain  a 
considerable  tincture  of  the  savage  state  ;  moral  ideas,  as  yet  imper- 
fectly formed  ;  and  the  appetites  and  passions  of  men  brought  under 
none  of  those  restraints  to  which,  in  a  more  advanced  state  of  society, 
they  aie  accustomed  ;  but  bodily  strength  prized  as  one  of  the 
Wiief  heroic  endowments  ;  the  preparing  of  a  meal,  and  the  appeas- 


48L  THE  ILIAD  OF  HOMER.  [lect.  xlhi. 

ing  <jx  hunger,  described  as  very  interesting  objects  ;  and  the  heroes 
boasting  of  themselves  openly,  scolding  one  another  outrageously, 
and  glorying,  as  we  should  now  think  very  indecently,  over  their 
fallen  enemies. 

The  opening  of  the  Iliad  possesses  none  of  that  sort  of  dignity, 
which  a  modern  looks  for  in  a  great  epic  poem.  It  turns  on  no  higher 
subject,  than  the  quarrel  of  two  chieftains  about  a  female  slave 
The  priest  of  Apollo  beseeches  Agamemnon  to  restore  his  daughter, 
who,  in  the  plunder  of  a  city,  had  fallen  to  Agamemnon's  share 
of  booty.  He  refuses.  Apollo,  at  the  prayer  of  his  priest,  sends  a 
plague  into  the  Grecian  camp.  The  augur,  when  consulted,  declares 
that,  there  is  no  way  of  appeasing  Apollo,  but  by  restoring  the  daugh- 
ter of  his  priest.  Agamemnon  is  enraged  at  the  augur;  professes 
that  he  likes  this  slave  better  than  his  wife  Clytemnestra;  but  since 
he  must  restore  her,  in  order  to  save  the  army,  insists  to  have  another 
in  her  place  ;  and  pitches  upon  Briseis,  the  slave  of  Achilles.  Achil- 
les, as  was  to  be  expected,  kindles  into  a  rage  at  this  demand  ;  re- 
proaches him  for  his  rapacity  and  insolence,  and  after  giving  him 
many  hard  names,  solemnly  swears,  that,  if  he  is  to  be  thus  treated 
by  the  general,  he  will  withdraw  his  troops,  and  assist  the  Grecians 
no  more  against  the  Trojans.  He  withdraws  accordingly.  His 
mother,  the  goddess  Thetis,  interests  Jupiter  in  his  cause ;  who,  to 
revenge  the  wrongwhich  Achilles  had  suffered,  takes  part  against  the 
Greeks,  and  suffers  them  to  fall  into  great  and  long  distress;  un- 
til Achilles  is  pacified,  and  reconciliation  brought  about  between 
him  and  Agamemnon. 

Such  is  tne  basis  of  the  whole  action  of  the  Iliad.  Hence  rise  all 
those  '  speciosamiracula,'  as  Horace  terms  them,  which  fill  that  ex- 
traordinary poem  ;  and  which  have  had  the  power  of  interesting  al- 
most all  the  nations  of  Europe,  during  every  age,  since  the  days  ot' 
Homer.  The  general  admiration  commanded  by  a  poetical  plan, 
so  very  differentfrom  what  any  one  would  have  formed  in  our  times, 
ought  not,  upon  reflection,  to  be  matter  of  surprise.  For,  besides 
that  a  fertile  genius  can  enrich  and  beautify  any  subject  on  which  it 
is  employed,  it  is  to  be  observed,  that  ancient  manners,  how  much 
soever  they  contradict  our  present  notions  of  dignity  and  refinement, 
afford,  nevertheless,  materials  for  poetry,  superior,  in  some  respects, 
to  those  which  are  furnished  by  a  more  polished  state  of  society. 
They  discover  human  nature  more  open  and  undisguised,  without 
any  of  those  studied  forms  of  behaviour  which  now  conceal  men 
from  one  another.  They  give  free  scope  to  the  strongest  and  most 
impetuous  emotions  of  the  mind,  which  make  a  better  figure  in  de- 
scription than  calm  and  temperate  feelings.  They  show  us  our  na- 
tive prejudices,  appetites,  and  desires,  exerting  themselves  without 
control.  From  this  state  of  manners,  joined  with  the  advantage  of 
that  strong  and  expressive  style,  which,  as  I  formerly  observed,  com- 
monly distinguishes  the  compositions  of  early  ages,  we  have  ground 
to  look  for  more  of  the  boldness,  ease,  and  freedom  of  native  gonitis, 
in  compositions  of  such  a  period,  than  in  those  of  more  civilized 
times.     And,  accord'  vgly,  the  two  great  characters  of  the  Homeriff 


llct.  xi.iii.J         THE  ILIAD  OF  HOMER.  483"' 

poetry  are  fire  and  simplicity.  Let  us  now  proceed  to  ma/cf  «ome 
more  particular  observations  on  the  Iliad,  under  the  three  neads  of 
the  subject  and  action,  the  characters,  and  narration  of  the  poet 

The  subject  of  the  Iliad  must  unquestionably  be  admitted  to  be, 
in  the  main,  happily  chosen.  In  the  days  of  Homer,  no  object 
could  be  more  splendid  and  dignified  than  the  7  'ojan  war.  So  great 
a  confederacy  of  the  Grecian  states,  under  o^e  leader,  and  the  ten 
years'  siege  which  they  carried  on  against  Troy,  must  have  spread 
far  abroad  the  renown  of  many  military  exploits,  and  interested  all 
Greece  in  the  traditions  concerning  the  heroes  who  had  most  emi- 
nently signalized  themselves.  Upon  these  traditions  Homer  ground- 
ed his  poem;  and  though  he  lived,  as  is  generally  believed,  only 
two  or  three  centuries  after  the  Trojan  war,  yet,  through  the  want 
of  written  records,  tradition  must,  by  this  time,  have  fallen  into 
the  degree  of  obscurity  most  proper  for  poetry;  and  have  left  him 
at  full  liberty  to  mix  as  much  fable  as  he  pleased  with  the  remains 
of  true  history.  He  has  not  chosen  for  his  subject  the  whole 
Trojan  war;  but,  with  great  judgment,  he  has  selected  one  part  of 
it,  the  quarrel  betwixt  Achilles  and  Agamemnon,  and  the  events  to 
which  that  quarrel  gave  rise;  which,  though  they  take  up  forty-seven 
days  only,  yet  included  the  most  interesting  and  most  critical  period 
of  the  war.  By  this  management,  he  has  given  greater  unity  to 
what  would  have  otherwise  been  an  unconnected  history  of  battles. 
He  has  gained  one  hero,  or  principal  character,  Achilles,  who  reigns 
throughout  the  work;  and  he  has  shown  the  pernicious  effect  of  discord 
among  confederated  princes.  At  the  same  time,  I  admit  that  Ho- 
mer is  less  fortunate  in  his  subject  than  Virgil.  The  plan  of  the 
iEneid  includes  a  greater  compass,  and  a  more  agreeable  diversity  of 
events  ;  whereas  the  Iliad  is  almost  entirely  filled  with  battles. 

The  praise  of  high  invention  has,  in  every  a^e,  been  given  to 
Homer,  with  the  greatest  reason.  The  prodigious  number  of  in- 
cidents, of  speeches,  of  characters  divine  and  human,  with  which 
he  abounds;  the  surprising  variety  with  which  he  has  diversified 
his  battles,  in  the  wounds  and  deaths,  and  little  history  pieces  of 
almost  all  the  persons  slain,  discover  an  invention  next  to  bound- 
less. But  the  praise  of  judgment  is,  in  my  opinion,  no  less  due  to 
Homer,  than  that  of  invention.  His  story  is  all  along  conducted 
with  great  art.  He  rises  upon  us  gradually  ;  his  heroes  are  brought 
out,  one  after  another,  to  be  objects  of  our  attention.  The  distress 
thickens,  as  the  poem  advances ;  and  every  thing  is  so  contrived 
as  to  aggrandize  Achilles,  and  to  render  him,  as  the  poet  intended 
he  should  be,  the  capital  figure. 

But  that  wherein  Homer  excels  all  writers  is  the  characteristical 
part.  Here  he  is  without  a  rival.  His  lively  and  spirited  exhibition 
of  characters  is,  in  a  great  measure,  owing  to  his  being  so  dra- 
matic a  writer,  abounding  every  where  with  dialogue  and  conversa- 
tion. There  is  much  more  dialogue  in  Homer  than  in  Virgil:  or, 
indeed,  than  in  any  other  poet.  What  Virgil  informs  us  of  by  two 
words  of  narration.  Homer  brings  about  by  a  speech.  We  may 
observe  here,  that  this  method  of  writing  is  more  ancient  than 
4  A 


484  THE  ILIAD  OF  HOMER.         [lect.  xliii 

the  narrative  manner.  Of  this  we  have  a  clear  proof  in  the  books  of 
the  Old  Testament,  which,  instead  of  narration,  abound  with  speeches, 
with  answers  and  replies,  upon  the  most  familiar  subjects.  Thus,  in 
the  book  of  Genesis  :  <  Joseph  said  unto  his  brethren,  Whence  come 
ye  ?  and  they  answered,  From  the  land  of  Canaan  we  come  to  buy 
food.  And  Joseph  said,  Ye  are  spies ;  to  see  the  nakedness  of  the 
land  are  ye  come.  And  they  said  unto  him,  Nay,  my  lord,  but 
to  buy  food  are  thy  servants  come ;  we  are  all  one  man's  sons,  we 
are  true  men,  thy  servants  are  no  spies.  And  he  said  unto  them, 
Nay,  but  to  see  the  nakedness  of  the  land  ye  are  come.  And  they 
said,  Thy  servants  are  twelve  brethren,  the  sons  of  one  man  in  the 
land  of  Canaan  ;  and  behold,  the  youngest  is  this  day  with  our  fa- 
ther;  and  one  is  not.  And  Joseph  said  unto  them  ;  This  it  is  that 
I  spake  unto  you,  saying,  ye  are  spies.  Hereby  ye  shall  be  pro 
ved  ;  by  the  life  of  Pharaoh, ye  shall  notgo  forth,  except  youryoung- 
est  brother  come  hither,'  &c.  Genesis  xlii.  7 — 15.  Such  a  style 
as  this,  is  the  most  simple  and  artless  form  of  writing,  and  must, 
therefore,  undoubtedly,  have  been  the  most  ancient.  It  is  copying 
directly  from  nature;  giving  a  plain  rehearsal  of  what  passed,  or 
was  supposed  to  pass,  in  conversation  between  the  persons  of  whom 
the  author  treats.  In  progress  of  time,  when  the  art  of  writing  was 
more  studied,  it  was  thought  more  elegant  to  compress  the  substance 
of  conversation  into  short  distinct  narrative,  made  by  the  poet  or 
historian  in  his  own  person  ;  and  to  reserve  direct  speeches  for 
solemn  occasions  only. 

The  ancient  dramatic  method  which  Homer  practised  ha«s  some 
advantages,  balanced  with  some  defects.  It  renders  composition 
more  natural  and  animated,  and  more  expressive  of  manners  and 
characters ;  but  withal  less  grave  and  majestic,  and  sometimes  tire- 
some. Homer,  it  must  be  admitted,  has  carried  his  propensity  to 
the  making  of  speeches  too  far;  and  if  he  be  tedious  any  where, 
.c  is  in  these  ;  some  of  them  trifling,  and  some  of  them  plainly  un- 
seasonable. Together  with  the  Greek  vivacity,  he  leaves  upon  our 
minds  some  impression  of  the  Greek  loquacity  also.  His  speeches, 
however,  are  upon  the  whole  characteristic  and  lively  ;  and  to  them 
we  owe,  in  a  great  measure,  that  admirable  display  which  he  has 
given  of  human  nature.  Every  one  who  reads  him,  becomes  fa- 
miliarly -and  intimately  acquainted  with  his  heroes.  We  seem  to 
have  lived  among  them,  and  to  have  conversed  with  them.  Not 
only  has  he  pursued  the  single  virtue  of  courage  through  all  its  dif- 
.ferent  forms  and  features,  in  his  different  warriors  ;  but  some  more 
delicate  characters,  into  which  courage  either  enters  not  at  all,  or  bui 
for  an  inconsiderable  part,  he  has  drawn  with  singular  art. 

How  finely,  for  instance,  has  he  painted  the  character  of  Helen, 
so  as,  notwithstanding  her  frailty  and  her  crimes,  to  prevent  her 
from  being  an  odious  object !  The  admiration  with  which  the  old 
generals  behold  her,  in  the  third  book,  when  she  is  coming  towards 
them,  presents  her  to  us  with  much  dignity.  Her  veiling  herself  and 
shedding  tears,  her  confusion  in  the  presence  of  Priam,   her  grief 


lect.  xliii.]  THE  ILIAD  OF  HOMER.  485 

and  self-accusations  at  the  sight  of  Menelaus,  her  upbraiding  Paris 
for  his  cowardice,  and,  at  the  same  time,  her  returning  fondness 
for  him,  exhibit  the  most  striking  features  of  that  mixed  female 
character,  which  we  partly  condemn,  and  partly  pity.  Homer 
never  introduces  her  without  making  her  say  something  to  move 
our  compassion  :  while,  at  the  same  time,  he  takes  care  to  contrast 
her  character  with  that  of  a  virtuous  matron,  in  the  chaste  and 
tender  Andromache. 

Paris  himself,  the  author  of  all  the  mischief,  is  characterized  with 
the  utmost  propriety.  He  is,  as  we  should  expect  him,  a  mixture 
of  gallantry  and  effeminacy.  He  retreats  from  Menelaus,  on  his  first 
appearance ;  but,  immediately  afterwards,  enters  into  single  combat 
with  him.  He  is  a  great  master  of  civility,  remarkably  courteous  in 
his  speeches  ;  and  receives  all  the  reproofs  of  his  brother  Hector 
with  modesty  and  deference.  He  is  described  as  a  person  of  ele- 
gance and  taste.  He  was  the  architect  of  his  own  palace.  He  is, 
in  the  sixth  book,  found  by  Hector,  burnishing  and  dressing  up  his 
armour;  and  issues  forth  to  battle  with  a  peculiar gayety  and  osten- 
tation of  appearance,  which  is  illustrated  by  one  of  the  finest  com- 
parisons in  all  the  Iliad,  that  of  the  horse  prancing  to  the  river. 

Homer  has  been  blamed  for  making  his  hero  Achilles  of  too  bru- 
tal and  unamiable  a  character.  But  I  am  inclined  to  think,  that  in- 
justice is  commonly  done  to  Achilles  upon  the  credit  of  two  lines 
gf  Horace,  who  has  certainly  overloaded  his  character. 

Impiger,  iracundus,  inexorabilis,  acer, 

Jura  neget  sibi  nata,  nihil  non  arroget  armis.  A.  P.  121. 

Achilles  is  passionate,  indeed,  to  a  great  degree;  but  he  is  far  from 
being  a  contemner  of  laws  and  justice.  In  the  contest  with  Aga- 
memnon, though  he  carries  it  on  with  too  much  heat,  yet  he  has 
reason  on  his  side.  He  was  notoriously  wronged  ;  but  he  submits, 
and  resigns  Briseis  peaceably,  when  the  heralds  come  to  demand 
her  ;  only  he  will  fight  no  longer  under  the  command  of  a  leader 
who  had  affronted  him.  Besides  his  wonderful  bravery  and  con- 
tempt of  death,  he  has  several  other  qualities  of  a  hero.  He  is  open 
and  sincere.  He  loves  his  subjects,  and  respects  the  gods.  He  is 
distinguished  by  strong  friendships  and  attachments  ;  he  is  through- 
out, high-spirited,  gallant,  and  honourable  ;  and  allowing  for  a  de- 
gree of  ferocity  which  belonged  to  the  times,  and  enters  into  the 
characters  of  most  of  Homer's  heroes,  he  is,  upon  the  whole,  abun- 
dantly fitted  to  raise  high  admiration,  though  not  pure  esteem. 

Under  the  head  of  characters,  Homer's  gods,  or  his  machinery, 
according  to  the  critical  term,  come  under  consideration.  The 
gods  make  a  great  figure  in  the  Iliad;  much  greater  indeed  than 
they  do  in  the  iEneid,  or  in  any  other  epic  poem  ;  and  hence  Ho- 
mer has  become  the  standard  of  poetic  theology.  Concerning  ma- 
chinery in  general,  I  delivered  my  sentiments  in  the  former  lec- 
ture. Concerning  Homer's  machinery,  in  particular,  we.  must  ob- 
serve, that  it  was  not  his  own  invention.  Like  every  other  good 
pjet,  he  unquestionably  followed  the  traditions  of  his  country. 
The  age  of  the  Trojan  war  approached  the  age  of  the  gods  and  de- 


486  THE  ILIAD  OF  HOMER.  |lect.  xliii 

ini-gods  in  Greece.  Several  of  the  heroes  concerned  la  that  war 
were  reputed  to  be  the  children  of  these  gods.  Of  course,  the  tra- 
ditionary tales  relating  to  them,  and  to  the  exploits  of  that  age, 
were  blended  with  the  fables  of  the  deities.  These  popular  legends 
Homer  very  properly  adopted  ;  though  it  is  perfectly  absurd  to 
infer  from  this,  that  therefore  poets  arising  in  succeeding  ages,  and 
writing  on  quite  different  subjects,  are  obliged  to  follow  the  same 
system  of  machinery. 

In  the  hands  of  Homer,  it  produces,  on  the  whole,  a  noble  effect; 
it  is  always  gay  and  amusing;  often  lofty  and  magnificent.  It  in- 
troduces into  his  poem  a  great  number  of  personages,  almost  as 
much  distinguished  by  characters  as  his  human  actors.  It  diversi- 
fies his  battles  greatly,  by  the  intervention  of  the  gods;  and  by  fre- 
quently shifting  the  scene  from  earth  to  heaven,  it  gives  an  agree- 
able relief  to  the  mind,  in  the  midst  of  so  much  blood  and  slaughter. 
Homer's  gods,  it  must  be  confessed,  though  they  be  always  lively 
and  animated  figures,  yet  sometimes  want  dignity.  The  conjugal 
contentions  between  Juno  and  Jupiter,  with  which  he  entertains  us, 
and  the  indecent  squabbles  he  describes  among  the  inferior  deities, 
according  as  they  take  different  sides  with  the  contending  parties, 
would  be  very  improper  models  for  any  modern  poet  to  imitate. 
In  apology  for  Homer,  however,  it  must  be  remembered,  that  ac- 
cording to  the  fables  of  those  days,  the  gods  are  but  one  remove 
above  the  condition  of  men.  They  have  all  the  human  passions.  They 
drink  and  feast,  and  are  vulnerable  like  men  ;  they  have  children 
and  kinsmen  in  the  opposite  armies;  and  except  that  they  are  im- 
mortal, that  they  have  houses  on  the  top  of  Olympus,  and  winged 
chariots,  in  which  they  are  often  flying  down  to  earth,  and  then 
rea?cending,  in  order  to  feast  on  nectar  and  ambrosia;  they  are  in 
truth  no  higher  beings  than  the  human  heroes,  and  therefore  very 
fit  to  take  part  in  their  contentions.  At  the  same  time,  though 
Homer  so  frequently  degrades  his  divinities,  yet  he  knows  how  to 
make  them  appear,  in  some  conjunctures,  with  the  most  awful  ma- 
jesty. Jupiter,  the  father  of  gods  and  men,  is,  for  the  most  part, 
introduced  with  great  dignity;  and  several  of  the  most  sublime 
conceptions  in  the  Iliad  are  founded  on  the  appearances  of  Neptune, 
Minerva,  and  Apollo,  on  great  occasions. 

With  regard  to  Homer's  style  and  manner  of  writing,  it  is  easy, 
natural,  and  in  the  highest  degree  animated.  It  will  be  admired 
by  such  only  as  relish  ancient  simplicity,  and  can -make  allowance 
for  certain  negligences  and  repetitions,  which  greater  refinement  in 
the  art  of  writing  has  taught  succeeding,  though  far  inferior,  poets 
to  avoid.  For  Homer  is  the  most  simple  in  his  style  of  all  the  great 
poets,  and  resembles  most  the  style  of  the  poetical  parts  of  the  Old 
Testament.  They  can  have  no  conception  of  his  manner,  who  are 
acquainted  with  him  in  Mr.  Pope's  translation  only.  An  excellent 
poetical  performance  that  translation  is,  and  faithful  in  the  main  to 
the  original.  In  some  places,  it  may  be  thought  to  have  even  im- 
proved Homer.  It  has  certainly  softened  some  of  his  rudenesses, 
and  added  delicacy  and  grace  to  some  of  his  sentiments.     But  with 


lect.  xxiii. J         THE  ILIAD  OF  HOMER.  „$7 

al,  it  is  no  other  than  Homer  modernized.  In  the  midst  oi  the  ele 
gance  and  luxuriancy  of  Mr.  Pope's  language,  we  lose  sight  of  the 
old  hard's  simplicity.  I  know  indeed  no  author,  to  whom  it  is  more 
difficult  to  do  justice  in  a  translation,  than  Homer.  As  the  plainness 
of  his  diction,  were  it  literally  rendered,  would  often  appear  flat  in 
any  modern  language;  so,  in  the  midst  of  that  plainness,  and  not  a 
little  heightened  by  it,  there  are  every  where  breaking  forth  upon 
us  flashes  of  native  fire,  of  sublimity  and  beauty,  which  hardly  any 
language,  except  his  own,  could  preserve.  His  versification  has 
been  universally  acknowledged  to  be  uncommonly  melodious;  and 
to  carry,  beyond  that  of  any  poet,  a  resemblance  in  the  sound  to  the 
sense  and  meaning. 

In  narration,  Homer  is,  at  all  times,  remarkably  concise,  which 
renders  him  lively  and  agreeable  ;  though,  in  his  speeches,  as  I  have 
before  admitted,  sometimes  tedious.  He  is  every  where  descriptive  ; 
and  descriptive  by  means  of  those  well  chosen  particulars  which 
form  the  excellency  of  description.  Virgil  gives  us  the  nod  of  Ju- 
piter with  great  magnificence  : 

Annuit,  et  totum  nutu  tremefecit  Olympum.  IX.  106. 

But  Homer,  in  describing  the  same  thing,  gives  us  the  sable  eye- 
orows  of  Jupiter  bent,  and  his  ambrosial  curls  shaken,  at  the  mo- 
ment when  he  gives  the  nod  ;  and  thereby  renders  the  figure  more 
natural  and  lively.  Whenever  he  seeks  to  draw  our  attention  to 
some  interesting  object,  he  particularizes  it  so  happily,  as  to  paint  it 
in  a  manner  to  our  sight.  The  shot  of  Pandarus's  arrow,  which 
broke  the  truce  between  the  two  armies,  as  related  in  the  fourth 
book,  may  be  given  for  an  instance;  and  above  all,  the  admirable 
interview  of  Hector  with  Andromache,  in  the  sixth  book:  where 
all  the  circumstances  of  conjugal  and  parental  tenderness,  the  child 
affrighted  with  the  view  of  his  father's  helmet  and  3rest,  and  clinging 
to  the  nurse  ;  Hector  putting  off  his  helmet,  taking  the  child  into 
his  arms,  and  offering  up  a  prayer  for  him  to  the  gods ;  Andromache 
receiving  back  the  child  with  a  smile  of  pleasure,  and  at  the  same 
instant  bursting  into  tears,  Suxp-josv  yskadada.,  as  it  is  finely  expressed 
in  the  original,  form  the  most  natural  and  affecting  picture  that  can 
possibly  be  imagined. 

In  the  description  of  battles,  Homer  particularly  excels.  He 
works  up  the  hurry,  the  terror,  and  confusion  of  them  in  so  mas- 
terly a  manner,  as  to  place  the  reader  in  the  very  midst  of  the  en- 
gagement. It  is  here,  that  the  fire  of  his  genius  is  most  highly  dis- 
played ;  insomuch  that  Virgil's  battles,  and  indeed  those  of  most 
other  poets,  are  cold  and  inanimate    in  comparison  of  Homer's. 

With  regard  to  similes,  no  poet  abounds  so  much  with  them.  Se 
veral  of  them  are  beyond  doubt  extremely  beautiful:  such  as  those 
of  the  fires  in  the  Trojan  camp  compared  to  the  moon  and  stars  by 
night ;  Paris  going  forth  to  battle,  to  the  war-horse  prancing  to  the 
river  ;  and  Euphorb.is  slain,  to  the  flowering  shrub  cut  down  by  9 
sudden  blast :  all  which  are  among  the  finest  poetical  passages  that 
are  an*T  where  to  be  found.     I  am  not,  however,  of  opinion  thai 


*S8  THE  ODYSSEY  OF  HOMER.         [lect.  xi  ru 

Homer's  comparisons,  taken  in  general,  are  his  greatest  beauties. 
They  come  too  thick  upon  us ;  and  often  interrupt  the  train  of  his 
narration  or  description.  The  resemblance  on  which  they  are 
founded,  is  sometimes  not  clear;  and  the  objects  whence  they  are 
taken  are  too  uniform.  His  lions,  bulls,  eagles,  and  herds  of  sheep 
recur  too  frequently  ;  and  the  allusions  in  some  of  his  similes, 
even  after  the  allowances  that  are  to  be  made  for  ancient  manners, 
must  be  admitted  to  be  debasing.* 

My  observations,  hitherto,  have  been  made  upon  the  Iliad  only 
It  is  necessary  to  take  some  notice  of  the  Odyssey  also.  Longi- 
nus's  criticism  upon  it  is  not  without  foundation,  that  Homer  may 
in  this  poem  be  compared  to  the  setting  sun,  whose  grandeur  still 
remains  without  the  heat  of  his  meridian  beams.  It  wants  the  vi- 
gour and  sublimity  of  the  Iliad ;  yet,  at  the  same  time,  possesses 
so  many  beauties,  as  to  be  justly  entitled  to  high  praise.  It  is  a  very 
amusing  poem,  and  has  much  greater  variety  than  the  Iliad  ;  it  con- 
tains many  interesting  stories,  and  beautiful  descriptions.  We  see 
every  where  the  same  descriptive  and  dramatic  genius,  and  the 
same  fertility  of  invention  that  appears  in  the  other  work.  It  de- 
scends indeed  from  the  dignity  of  gods,  and  heroes,  and  warlike 
achievements;  but  in  recompense  we  have  more  pleasing  pictures 
of  ancient  manners.  Instead  of  that  ferocity  which  reigns  in  the 
Iliad,  the  Odyssey  presents  us  with  the  most  amiable  images  of  hos- 
pitality and  humanity  ;  entertains  us  with  many  a  wonderful  adven- 
ture, and  many  a  landscape  of  nature;  and  instructs  us  by  a  con 
stant  vein  of  morality  and  virtue,  which  runs  through  the  poem. 

At  the  same  time  there  are  some  defects  which  must  be  acknow- 
ledged in  the  Odyssey.  Many  scenes  in  it  fall  below  the  majesty 
which  we  naturally  expect  in  an  epic  poem.  The  last  twelve  books, 
after  Ulysses  is  landed  in  Ithaca,  are,  in  several  parts,  tedious  and 
languid  ;  and  though  the  discovery  which  Ulysses  makes  of  him- 
self to  his  nurse,  Euryclea,  and  his  interview  with  Penelope,  before 
she  knows  him,  in  the  nineteenth  book,  are  tender  and  affecting,  yet 


*  The  severest  critic  upon  Homer  in  modern  times,  M.la  Motte,  admits  all  that  his 
admirers  urge  for  the  superiority  of  his  genius  and  talents  as  a  poet :  "  C'6toit  un 
gfinie  naturellement  pogtique,  ami  des  fables  et  des  merveilleux,  et  port6  en  gendral 
k  l'imitation,  soit  des  objets  de  la  nature,  soit  des  sentimens  et  des  actions  des 
homines.  II  avoit  l'esprit  vaste  et  fecond  ;  plus  eleve  que  delicat,  plus  naturel  qu'inge- 
nieux,  et  plus  amoureux  de  1'abondance  que  du  choix  — 11  a  saisi,  par  une  supgriorite 
rle  gout,  les  premieres  idees  de  l'eloquence  dans  toutes  les  genres  ;  il  a  parle  le 
langage  de  toutes  les  passions ;  et  il  a  du  moins  ouvert  aux  ecrivains  qui  doivent  le 
Bu.ivre  une  infinite  de  routes,  qu'il  ne  restoit  plus  qu'a  applanir.  II  y  a  apparency 
qa'en  quclques  temps  qu'  Homere  eut  vecu,  il  eftt  6t6,  du  moins,  le  plus  grand  poete 
dc  son  pays  :  et  h  ne  le  prendre  que  dans  ce  sens,  on  peut  dire,  qu'il  est  le  maitre. 
de  ceux  mi'mes  qui  l'ont  surpasse.  — Discours  sur  Homere.  (Euvres  de  la  Motte. 
tome  ii.  After  these  high  praises  of  the  author,  he  indeed  endeavours  to  bring  the 
merit  of  the  Iliad  very  low.  But  his  principal  objections  turn  on  the  debasing  ideas 
which  are  there  given  of  the  gods,  the  gross  characters  and  manners  of  the  heroes, 
snd  the  imperfect  morality  of  the  sentiments  ;  which,  as  Voltaire  observes,  is  like  ac 
rusing  a  painter  for  having  drawn  his  figures  in  the  dress  of  the  times.  Homer  paint- 
ed his  gods  such  as  popular  tradition  then  represented  thsm  ;  and  describes  sucb 
'iharacters  and  sentiments,  as  he  found  among  tho?e  with  whom  he  lived 


lect.  xliii._        THE  tENEID  OF  VIRGIL.  48!> 

the  poet  does  not  seem  happy  in  the  great  anagnorisis,  or  the  disco- 
very of  Ulysses  to  Penelope.  She  is  too  cautious  and  distrustful,  and 
we  are  disappointed  of  the  surprise  of  joy,  which  we  expected  on 
that  high  occasion. 

After  having  said  so  much  of  the  father  of  epic  poetry,  it  is  now 
time  to  proceed  to  Virgil,  who  has  a  character  clearly  marked,  and 
quite  distinct  from  that  of  Homer.  As  the  distinguishing  excellencies 
of  the  Iliad  are  simplicity  and  fire;  those  of  the  iEneid  are,  elegance 
and  tenderness.  Virgil  is,  beyond  doubt,  less  animated  and  less  svh 
lime  than  Homer;  but,  to  counterbalance  this,  he  has  fewer  negli- 
gences, greater  variety,  and  supports  more  of  a  correct  and  regular 
dignity,  throughout  his  work. 

When  we  begin  to  read  the  Iliad,  we  find  ourselves  in  the  region 
of  the  most  remote,  and  even  unrefined  antiquity.  When  we  open 
the  iEneid,  we  discover  all  the  correctness,  and  the  improvements, 
of  the  Augustan  age.  We  meet  with  no  contentions  of  heroes  about 
a  female  slave,  no  violent  scolding,  nor  abusive  language;  but  the 
poem  opens  with  the  utmost  magnificence ;  with  Juno,  forming  de- 
signs for  preventing  iEneas's  establishment  in  Italy,  and  iEneas  him- 
self presented  to  us  with  all  his  fleet,  in  the  middle  of  a  storm,  which 
is  described  in  the  highest  style  of  poetry. 

The  subject  of  the  iEneid  is  extremely  happy;  still  more  so,  in 
my  opinion,  than  either  of  Homer's  poems.  As  nothing  could  be 
more  noble,  nor  carry  more  of  epic  dignity,  so  nothing  could  be 
more  flattering  and  interesting  to  the  Roman  people, than  Virgil's 
deriving  the  origin  of  their  state  from  so  famous  a  hero  as  iEneas. 
The  object  was  splendid  in  itself;  it  gave  the  poet  a  theme,  taken 
from  the  ancient  traditionary  history  of  his  own  country ;  it  allowed 
him  to  connect  his  subject  with  Homer's  stories,  and  to  adopt  all  his 
mythology;  it  afforded  him  the  opportunity  of  frequently  glancing 
at  all  the  future  great  exploits  of  the  Romans,  and  of  describing 
Italy,  and  the  very  territory  of  Rome,  in  its  ancient  and  fabulous 
state.  The  establishment  of  iEneas,  constantly  traversed  by  Juno, 
leads  to  a  great  diversity  of  events,  of  voyages,  and  wars;  and  fur- 
nishes a  proper  intermixture  of  the  incidents  of  peace  with  martial 
exploits.  Upon  the  whole,  I  believe,  there  is  no  where  to  be  found 
so  complete  a  model  of  an  epic  fable,  or  story,  as  Virgil's  iEneid. 
I  see  no  foundation  for  the  opinion,  entertained  by  some  critics,  that 
the  iEneid  is  to  be  considered  as  an  allegorical  poem,  which  carries 
a  constant  reference  to  the  character  and  reign  of  Augustus  Caesar; 
r,  that  Virgil's  main  design  in  composing  the  iEneid,  was  to  recon- 
cile the  Romans  to  the  government  of  that  prince,  who  is  supposed 
to  be  shadowed  out  under  the  character  of  iEneas.  Virgil,  indeed, 
like  the  other  poets  of  that  age,  takes  every  opportunity  which  his 
subject  affords  him,  of  paying  court  to  Augustus.*  But,  to  imagine 
that  he  carried  a  political  plan  in  his  view,  through  the  whole  poem, 
appears  to  me  no  more  than  a  fanciful  refinement.     He  had  sufficient 

*  As  particularly  in  that  noted  passage  of  the  sixth  book,  1.  792 
Hie  vir,  hie  est,  tibi  quern  promitti  scepius  audis,  Sic. 


-190  THE  ^ENEID  OF  VIRGIL,         [lect.  xliii, 

motives,  as  ?  poet,  to  determine  him  to  the  choice  of  his  subject, 
from  Us  bei  rg,  in  itself,  both  great  and  pleasing;  from  its  being 
suited  to  his  genius,  and  its  being  attended  with  the  peculiar  advan- 
tages, which  I  mentioned  above,  for  the  full  display  of  poetical  tal- 
ents. 

Unity  of  action  is  perfectly  preserved  ;  as,  from  beginning  to 
end,  one  main  object  is  always  kept  in  view,  the  settlement  of 
/Eneas  in  Italy,  by  the  order  of  the  gods.  As  the  story  compre- 
hends the  transactions  of  several  years,  part  of  the  transactions  are 
very  properly  thrown  into  a  recitai  made  by  the  hero.  The  epi 
sodes  are  linked  with  sufficient  connexion  to  the  main  subject;  and 
the  nodus,  or  intrigue  of  the  poem,  is,  according  to  the  plan  of  ancient 
machinery,  happily  formed.  The  wrath  of  Juno,  who  opposes 
herself  to  the  Trojan  settlement  in  Italy,  gives  rise  to  all  the  diffi- 
culties which  obstruct  iEneas's  undertaking,  and  connects  the  hu- 
man with  the  celestial  operations,  throughout  the  whole  work. 
Hence  arise  the  tempest  which  throws  iEneas  upon  the  shore  of 
Africa;  the  passion  of  Dido,  who  endeavours  to  detain  him  at  Car- 
thage ;  and  the  efforts  of  Turnus,  who  opposes  him  in  war.  Till, 
at  last,  upon  a  composition  made  with  Jupiter,  that  the  Trojan 
name  shall  be  for  ever  sunk  in  the  Latin,  Juno  foregoes  her  resent- 
ment, and  the  hero  becomes  victorious. 

In  these  main  points,  Virgil  has  conducted  his  work  with  great 
propriety,  and  shown  his  art  and  judgment.  But  the  admiration  due 
to  so  eminent  a  poet,  must  not  prevent  us  from  remarking  some 
other  particulars  in  which  he  has  failed.  First,  there  are  scarce 
any  characters  marked  in  the  iEneid.  In  this  respect  it  is  insipid, 
when  compared  to  the  Iliad,  which  is  full  of  characters  and  life. 
Achates,  and  Cloanthus,  and  Gyas,  and  the  rest  of  the  Trojan 
heroes,  who  accompanied  iEneas  into  Italy,  are  so  many  undistin- 
guished figures,  who  are  in  no  way  made  known  to  us,  either  by  any 
sentiments  which  they  utter,  or  any  memorable  exploits  which  they 
perform.  Even  ./Eneas  himself  is  not  a  very  interesting  hero.  He 
is  described,  indeed,  as  pious  and  brave;  but  his  character  is  not 
marked  with  any  of  those  strokes  that  touch  the  heart;  it  is  a  sort 
of  cold  and  tame  character;  and  throughout  his  behaviour  to  Dido, 
in  the  fourth  book,  especially  in  the  speech  which  he  makes  after 
she  suspected  his  intention  of  leaving  her,  there  appeals  a  certain 
hardness  und  want  of  relenting,  which  is  far  from  rendering  him 
amiable.*  Dido's  own  character  is  by  much  the  best  supported  in 
the  whole  iEneid.  The  warmth  of  her  passions,  the  keenness  of 
her  indignation  and  resentment,  and  the  violence  of  her  whole  cha- 
racter, exhibit  a  figure  greatly  more  animated  than  any  other  which 
Virgil  has  drawn. 

Besides  this  defect  of  character  in  the  iEneid,  the  distribution 
and  management  of  the  subject  are,  in  some  respects,  exception- 
able.    The  iEneid,  it  is  true,  must  be  considered  with  the  indul- 

*  Nura  fletu  ingemuit  nostro  i  num  luniina  flexit  ? 
Num  kcrynias  victus  dedit,  aut  miseratus  amantem  est  ?      JEn.  iv.  369. 


lect.  xliii.]  THE  ^ENEID  OF  VIRGIL.  491 

gence  due  to  a  work  not  thoroughly  completed.  The  six  last  books 
are  said  not  to  have  received  the  finishing  hand  of  the  author;  and 
for  this  reason,  he  ordered,  bjr  his  will,  the  iEneid  to  be  commit- 
ted to  the  flames.  But  though  this  may  account  for  incorrectness 
of  execution,  it  does  not  apologize  for  a  falling  off  in  the  subject, 
which  seems  to  take  place  in  the  latter  part  of  the  work.  The  wars 
with  the  Latins  are  inferior,  in  point  of  dignity,  to  the  more  inter- 
esting objects  which  had  before  been  presented  to  us  in  the  destruc- 
tion of  Troy,  the  intrigue  with  Dido,  and  the  descent  into  helL 
And  in  those  Italian  wars,  there  is,  perhaps,  a  more  material  fault 
still,  in  the  conduct  of  the  story.  The  reader,  as  Voltaire  has  ob- 
served, is  tempted  to  take  part  with  Turnus  against  ^Eneas.  Tur- 
nus,  a  brave  young  prince,  in  love  with  Lavinia,  his  near  relation, 
is  destined  for  her  by  general  consent,  and  highly  favoured  by  her 
mother.  Lavinia  herself  discovers  no  reluctance  to  the  match : 
when  there  arrives  a  stranger,  a  fugitive  from  a  distant  region, 
who  had  never  seen  her,  and  who,  founding  a  claim  to  an  establish- 
ment in  Italy  upon  oracles  and  prophecies,  embroils  the  country  in 
war,  kills  the  lover  of  Lavinia,  and  proves  the  occasion  of  her 
mother's  death.  Such  a  plan  is  not  fortunately  laid  for  disposing 
us  to  be  favourable  to  the  hero  of  the  poem ;  and  the  defect  might 
have  been  easily  remedied,  by  the  poet's  making  iEneas,  instead 
of  distressing  Lavinia,  deliver  her  from  the  persecution  of  some 
rival  who  was  odious  to  her,  and  to  the  whole  country. 

But  notwithstanding  these  defects,  which  it  was  necessary  to  re- 
mark, Virgil  possesses  beauties  which  have  justly  drawn  the  admi- 
ration of  ages,  and  which,  to  this  day,  hold  the  balance  in  equili 
brium  between  his  fame  and  that  of  Homer.  The  principal  and 
distinguishing  excellency  of  Virgil,  and  which,  in  my  opinion,  he 
possesses  beyond  all  poets,  is  tenderness.  Nature  had  endowed 
him  with  exquisite  sensibility  ;  he  felt  every  affecting  circumstance 
in  the  scenes  he  describes ;  and,  by  a  single  stroke,  he  knows  how 
to  reach  the  heart.  This,  in  an  epic  poem,  is  the  merit  next  to 
sublimity ;  and  puts  it  in  an  author's  power  to  render  his  composi- 
tion extremely  interesting  to  all  readers. 

The  chief  beauty  of  this  kind  in  the  Iliad,  is,  the  interview  of 
Hector  with  Andromache.  But  in  the  iEneid,  there  are  many  such. 
The  second  book  is  one  of  the  greatest  masterpieces  that  ever  was 
executed  by  any  hand  ;  and  Virgil  seems  to  have  put  forth  there  the 
whole  strength  of  his  genius,  as  the  subject  afforded  a  variety  ol 
scenes,  both  of  the  awful  and  tender  kind.  The  images  of  horror, 
presented  by  a  city  burnt  and  sacked  in  the  night,  are  finely  mixed 
with  pathetic  and  affecting  incidents.  Nothing,  in  any  poet,  is 
more  beautifully  described  than  the  death  of  old  Priam  ;  and  the 
family -pieces  of  .(Eneas,  Anchises,  and  Creusa,  are  as  tender  as  can 
be  conceived.  In  many  passages  of  the  jEneid,  the  same  pathetic 
spirit  shines;  and  they  have  been  always  the  favourite  passages  in 
that  work.  The  fourth  book,  for  instance,  relating  the  unhappy 
passion  and  death  of  Dido,  has  been  always  most  justly  admired, 
and  abounds  with  beauties  of  the  highest  kind.  The  interview  ol 
4B 


49«  THE  ^NEID  OF  VIRGIL.         [lect.  xliii 

^Eneas  with  Andromache  and  Helenus,  in  the  third  book,  the  epi 
sodes  of  Pallas  and  Evander,  of  Nisus  and  Euryalus,  of  Lausus  and 
Mezentius,in  the  Italian  wars,  are  all  striking  instances  of  the  poet's 
power  of  raising  the  tender  emotions.  For  we  must  observe,  that 
though  the  iEneid  be  an  unequarpoem,  and,  in  some  places,  languid, 
vet  there  are  beauties  scattered  through  it  all ;  and  not  a  few,  even 
n  the  last  six  books.  The  best  and  most  finished  books,  upon  the 
whole,  are,  the  first,  the  second,  the  fourth,  the  sixth,  the  seventh, 
the  eighth,  and  the  twelfth. 

Virgil's  battles  are  far  inferior  to  Homer's,  in  point  of  fire  and 
sublimity  ;  but  there  is  one  important  episode,  the  descent  into  hell, 
in  which  he  has  outdone  Homer  in  the  Odyssey,  by  many  degrees. 
There  is  nothing  in  all  antiquity  equal,  in  its  kind,  to  the  sixth 
book  of  the  iEneid.  The  scenery,  and  the  objects,  are  great  and 
striking;  and  fill  the  mind  with  that  solemn  awe,  which  was  to  be 
expected  from  a  view  of  the  invisible  world.  There  runs  through 
the  whole  description  a  certain  philosophical  sublime  ;  which  Vir- 
gil's Platonic  genius,  and  the  enlarged  ideas  of  the  Augustan  age, 
enabled  him  to  support  with  a  degree  of  majesty,  far  beyond  what 
the  rude  ideas  of  Homer's  age  suffered  him  to  attain.  With  regard 
to  the  sweetness  and  beauty  of  Virgil's  numbers,  throughout  his 
whole  works,  they  are  so  well  known,  that  it  were  needless  to  en- 
large in  the  praise  of  them. 

Upon  the  whole,  as  to  the  comparative  merit  of  these  two  great 
pnnces  of  epic  poetry,  Homer  and  Virgil  ;  the  former  must,  un- 
doubtedly, be  admitted  to  be  the  greater  genius;  the  latter,  to  be 
the  more  correct  writer.  Homer  was  an  original  in  his  art,  and  dis- 
covers both  the  beauties  and  the  defects  which  are  to  be  expected 
in  an  original  author,  compared  with  those  who  succeed  him  ;  more 
boldness,  more  nature  and  ease,  more  sublimity  and  force ;  but 
greater  irregularities  and  negligences  in  composition.  Virgil  has, 
all  along,  kept  his  eye  upon  Homer  ;  in  many  places,  he  has  not  so 
much  imitated,  as  he  has  literally  translated  him.  The  description 
of  the  storm,  for  instance,  in  the  first  iFneid,  and  iEneas's  speech 
upon  that  occasion,  are  translations  from  the  fifth  book  of  the  Odys- 
sey; not  to  mention  almost  all  the  similes  of  Virgil,  which  are  no 
ether  than  copies  of  those  of  Homer.  The  pre-eminence  in  invention, 
therefore,  must,  beyond  doubt,  be  ascribed  to  Homer.  As  to  the  pre- 
eminence in  judgment,  though  many  critics  are  disposed  to  give  it  to 
Virgil,  yet,  in  my  opinion,  it  hangs  doubtful.  In  Homer,  we  discern 
all  the  Greek  vivacity  ;  in  Virgil,  all  the  Roman  stateliness.  Ho- 
mer's imagination  is  by  much  the  most  rich  and  copious ;  Virgil's, 
the  most  chaste  and  correct.  The  strength  of  the  former  lies  in  his 
power  of  warming  the  fancy;  that  of  the  latter,  in  his  power  of  touch- 
ing the  heart.  Homer's  style  is  more  simple  and  animated ;  Virgil's 
more  elegant  and  uniform.  The  first  has,  on  many  occasions,  a  sub 
limity  to  which  the  latter  never  attains ;  but  the  latter,  in  return, 
never  sinks  below  a  certain  degree  of  epic  dignity,  which  cannot  so 
clearly  be  pronounced  of  the  former.  Not,  however,  to  detract  from 
the  admiration  due  to  both  these  great  poets,  most  of  Homer's  de 


V4CT.   XLIIT. 


QUESTIONS. 


493 


Lets  may  reasonably  be  imputed,  not  to  his  genius,  but  to  the  man- 
ners of  the  age  in  which  he  lived  ;  and  for  the  feeble  passages  of  the 
As!neid,  this  excuse  ought  to  be  admitted,  that  the  iEneid  was  left  an 
unfinished  work. 


QUESTIONS. 


Why  does  the  epic  poem  merit  par- 
ticular discussion?  Having  treated  of 
the  nature  of  this  composition,  and  of 
the  principal  rules  relating  to  it,  to 
what  does  our  author  proceed  ?  Who 
claims  our  first  attention;  and  why? 
What  must,  whoever  sits  down  to 
read  Homer,  consider  1  Why  should  he 
make  this  reflection?  For  what  is  he 
not  to  look ;  and  of  what  must  he  di- 
vest himself?  What  is  he  to  expect ; 
and  what  must  he  reckon  upon  finding? 
What  does  the  opening  of  the  Iliad 
not  possess  ?  Upon  what  does  it  turn  ? 
Repeat  the  basis  of  the  whole  action  of 
the  Iliad,  as  illustrative  of  this  remark. 
Hence,  rise  what  ?  What  ought  not  to 
be  a  matter  of  surprise  ;  and  why  not  ? 
How  do  they  discover  human  nature  ? 
To  what  do  they  give  free  scope ;  and 
what  do  they  show  us  ?  From  this  state 
of  manners,  together  with  its  attending 
circumstances,  for  what  have  we 
ground  to  look?  And  accordingly, 
what  are  the  two  great  characters  of 
Homeric  poetry?  Under  what  three 
heads  do  we  now  proceed  to  make  some 
more  particular  observations  on  the 
Iliad  ?  Why  must  the  subject  of  the 
Iliad  be  admitted  to  be  a  happy  one  ? 
'Upon  what  traditions  did  Homer  ground 
his  poem  ;  and  what  remark  follows  ? 
What  part  of  the  Trojan  war  did  Ho- 
mer select  as  his  subject?  From  this 
management,  what  advantage  did  he 
derive?  What  has  he  gained;  and 
what  shown  ?  At  the  same  time,  what 
must  be  admitted  ;  and  why  ?  What, 
in  all  ages,  has,  with  the  greatest  rea- 
son, been  given  to  Homer  ?  How  is 
this  illustrated?  But  the  praise  of  what, 
is  also  equally  his  due  ?  How  is  this, 
also,  illustrated  ?  In  what  does  Homer 
ctand  without  a  rival  ?  To  what  is  his 
lively  and  spirited  exhibition  of  charac- 
ters owing?  What  remark  follows? 
W'hat  Virgil  informs  us  by  two  words 
of  narration,  Homer  brings  about  by 
what?  What,  may  we  here  observe  ; 
and  in  what  books  have  we  a  clear 
proof  of  this  remark?    Repeat  the  pas- 


sage from  the  book  of  Genesis,  illustra- 
tive of  this  remark.  Of  this  style,  what 
is  observed  ?  It  is  copying  from  what ; 
and  what  is  it  giving  ?  In  progress  ot 
time,  what  was  thought  more  elegant? 
What  are  the  advantages,  and  also  the 
disadvantages,  of  the  ancient  dramatic 
method  which  Homer  practised  ?  Ol 
his  speeches,  however,  what  is  farther 
observed ;  and  to  them,  what  do  we 
owe  ?  How  is  this  illustrated  ?  Of  the 
extent  to  which  he  has  pursued  the  sin- 
gle virtue  of  courage,  what  is  remark- 
ed? How  is  this  remark  illustrated,  in 
the  manner  in  which  the  character  of 
Helen  is  painted  ?  What  presents  her 
to  us  with  much  dignity  ?  What  ex- 
hibit the  most  striking  features  of  thai 
mixed  female  character,  which-  we 
partly  condemn,  and  partly  pity  ?  Ho- 
mer never  introduces  her  without 
what;  and,  at  the  same  time,  about 
what  is  he  careful  ?  How  is  Paris  him- 
self characterized  ?  Repeat  his  parti- 
cular characteristics.  For  what  has 
Homer  been  blamed  ?  But  to  what 
opinion  is  our  author  inclined  ?  What 
are  Achilles'  peculiar  characteristics? 
Under  the  head  of  characters,  what 
come  v  ider  consideration;  and  of  them, 
what  is  observed?  Concerning  ma- 
chinery in  general,  and  concerning 
Homer's  machinery  in  particular,  what 
is  remarked  ?  What  did  he  follow  l 
How  is  this  illustrated  ?  In  the  hands 
of  Homer,  what  is  its  effect;  and  of  il, 
what  remarks  follow  ?  Of  Homer'? 
gods,  what  must  be  confessed?  What 
illustration  of  this  remark  follows  ?  In 
apology,  however,  for  Homer,  what 
!  must  be  remarked  ?  How  is  this  re- 
mark illustrated  ?  At  the  same  time, 
how  does  he  frequently  make  them  ap- 
pear ;  and  what  instances  are  men- 
tioned ?  With  regard  to  Homer's  style 
and  marker  of  writing,  what  is  re- 
marked ?  By  whom  only  will  it  be  ad- 
mired ;  and  why  ?  Who  can  have  no 
conception  of  his  manner?  Of  that 
translation,  what,  character  is  given  ? 
Why  is  it  so   difficult  to  do  justice  to 


'*<K 


QUESTIONS. 


LECT.  XLIII 


Homer,  in  a  translation?    Of  his  versi- 
fication, what  is  observed  ? 

How  is  Homer  in  narration?  By 
means  of  what,  is  he  every  where  de- 
scriptive ?  How  is  he  contrasted  in  this 
respect  with  Virgil  ?  Whenever  he 
seeks  to  draw  our  attention  to  any  par- 
ticular object,  what  does  he  do?  What 
lorm  the  most  natural  and  affecting 
picture  that  can  possibly  be  imagined? 
In  what  does  Homer  particularly  ex- 
cel ?  What  does  he  do ;  and  here,  how 
does  he  compare  with  other  poets? 
With  regard  to  his  similes,  what  is  re- 
marked? Of  his  beautiful  similes,  what 
instances  are  given  ?  Of  what,  howev- 
er, is  our  author  not  of  opinion ;  and 
why  are  they  not  ?  Upon  what  has  our 
author's  observations,  hitherto,  been 
made ;  and  of  what  is  it  necessary,  also, 
to  take  some  notice  ?  What  is  the  criti- 
cism of  Longinus  on  this  poem  ?  What 
does  it  want ;  yet,  at  the  same  time, 
what  does  it  possess?  What  do  we 
every  where  see?  From  what  does  it 
descend ;  but,  in  recompense  for  this, 
what  have  we  ?  Instead  of  that  feroci- 
ty which  reigns  in  the  Iliad,  with  what 
does  the  Odyssey  present  us  ?  At  the 
same  time,  Avhat  are  the  defects  of  the 
Odyssey  ?  After  having  said  so  much 
of  the  father  of  epic  poetry,  to  whom 
Jo  we  proceed;  and  of  him,  what  is 
observed  ?  How  does  he  differ  from  Ho- 
mer? When  we  begin  to  read  the 
Iliad,  where  do  we  find  ourselves  ? 
When  we  open  the  iEneid,  what  do 
we  discover  ?  With  what  do  we  not 
meet  ?  How  does  the  poem  open  :  and 
with  what  ?  Why  is  the  subject  of  the 
/Eneid  considered  extremely  happy? 
Of  the  object,  what  is  observed  ;  and 
what  theme  did  it  give  the  poet  ?  What 
did  it  allow  him;  and  what,  also,  afford 
him  ?  To  what  <Joes  the  establishment 
of  iEneas,  constantly  traversed  by  Ju- 
no, lead ;  and  what  does  it  furnish  ? 
Upon  the  whole,  what  does  our  au- 
thor believe?  For  what  opinion  does 
he  see  no  foundation  ?  What  does 
Virgil,  like  every  other  poet  of  that  age, 
do  :  but  what  appears  no  more  than  a 
fanciful  refinement?  What  motives, as 
a  poet,  had  he  to  determine  him  in  the 
choice  of  his  subject  ?  How  is  the  unity 
of  the  action  perfectly  preserved  ?  Why 
are  part  of  the  transactions  very  proper- 
.y  thrown  into  a  recital  made  by  the 
hero  ?  Of  the  episodes,  and  of  the  in- 
t'  igwe  of  the  poem,  wiiat  is  observed  ? 


What  was  the  effect  of  the  wrath  of 
Juno;  and  hence,  arise  what  ?  In  these 
main  points,  how  has  Virgil  conducted 
his  work  ;  and  what  has  he  shown  ? 
But  the  admiration  due  to  so  eminent 
a  poet,  must  not  prevent  what  ?  What 
is  the  first ;  and  in  this  respect,  how  does 
it  compare  with  the  Iliad  ?  Of  the  com- 
panions of  ./Eneas,  what  is  observed  ? 
What  is  said  even  of  ^Eneas  himself  ? 
Which  is  the  best  supported  character 
in  the  book;  and  how  is  this  illustra- 
ted ?  Besides  this  defect  of  character, 
what  else  are,  in  some  respects,  excep- 
tionable? With  what  indulgence  must 
the  iEneid  be  considered ;  and  Avhy  ? 
Foi  this  reason,  what  did  he,  by  his 
will,  order  ?  But  though  this  may  ac- 
count for  incorrectness  of  execution,  for 
what  does  it  not  apologize  ?  How  is 
this  remark  illustrated?  For  what  ia 
such  a  plan  unfortunate ;  and  how 
might  the  defect  have  been  easily  re- 
medied? But  notwithstanding  these 
defects,  what  does  Virgil  possess? 
What  is  his  distinguishing  excellency? 
With  what  had  nature  endowed  him ; 
and  what  was  the  consequence?  Of 
this  merit,  in  an  epic  poem,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  What  is  the  chief  beauty  of 
this  kind  in  the  Iliad  ?  Of  the  second 
book  of  the  iEneid,  what  is  observed  ? 
What  instances  are  mentioned  ?  How 
have  such  passages  in  the  iEneid  al- 
ways been  regarded?  Of  the  death  of 
Dido,  in  the  fourth  book,  what  is  obser- 
ved? What  farther  instances  of  the 
poet's  power  of  raising  the  tender  erao- 
ti:us,  are  given?  For  we  must  observe 
what  ?  What  are  the  best  and  most 
finished  books  of  the  jEneid  ?  Though 
Virgil's  battles  are  inferior  to  Homer's, 
yet  in  what  has  he  excelled  him  by 
many  degrees  ?  What  are  the  peculiar 
excellences  of  the  sixth  book  of  the 
JErteid  ?  With  regard  to  the  sweetness 
and  beauty  of  Virgil's  numbers,  what 
is  observed?  Upon  the  whole,  as  to 
the  comparative  merit  of  these  two 
princes  of  epic  poetry,  Homer  and  Vir 
gil,  with  what  remarks  does  our  author 
close  ? 


ANALYSIS. 

Homer — Introductory  remarks. 
1.  The  Iliad. 

a.  The  basis  of  the  action. 

b.  The  subject  happily  chosen. 

c.  Homer's  invention. 

d.  His  characters. 

a.  The  dramatic  method  considered 


ECT.  XL1V.] 


LUCAN'S   PHARSALIA. 


493  b 


b.  Helen    Paris — Achilles. 

c.  The  machinery. 
i.  The  style. 

f.  The  narration — description— similes. 
2.  The  Odyssey. 
a.  Its  excellences  and  its  defects. 
Virgil — the  iEneid. 
1.  Its  excellences. 


A.  The  subject. 
e.  The  unity  of  vhe  action, 
c.  Its  tenderness. 
2.  Its  defects. 

a.  The  characters. 

b.  The  management  of  the  subject. 

c.  The  battles. 

Homer  and  Virgil  compared. 


JLECTURE    XLIV. 


LUCAN'S  PHARSALIA.— TASSO'S  JERUSALEM.— CA- 
MOENS'  LUSIAD.— FENELON'S  TELEMACHUS.— VOL- 
TAIRE'S   HENRIADE.— MILTON'S   PARADISE    LOST. 

After  Homer  and  Virgil,  the  next  great  epic  poet  of  ancient 
times,  who  presents  himself,  is  Lucan.  He  is  a  poet  who  deserves 
our  attention,  on  account  of  a  very  peculiar  mixture  of  great  beau- 
ties, with  great  faults.  Though  his  Pharsalia  discover  too  little  in- 
vention, and  be  conducted  in  too  historical  a  manner,  to  be  account- 
ed a  perfectly  regular  epic  poem,  yet  it  were  the  mere  squeamishness 
of  criticism,  to  exclude  it  from  the  epic  class.  The  boundaries,  as 
I  formerly  remarked,  are  far  from  being  ascertained  by  any  such  pre- 
cise limit,  that  we  must  refuse  the  epic  name  to  a  poem,  which 
treats  of  great  and  heroic  adventures,  because  it  is  not  exactly  con- 
formable to  the  plans  of  Homer  and  Virgil.  The  subject  of  the 
Pharsalia  carries,  undoubtedly,  all  the  epic  grandeur  and  dignity  ; 
neither  does  it  want  unity  of  object,  viz.  the  triumph  of  Caesar  over 
the  Roman  liberty.  .  As  it  stands  at  present,  it  is,  indeed,  brought 
to  no  proper  close.  But  either  time  has  deprived  us  of  the  last  books, 
or  it  has  been  left  by  the  author  an  incomplete  work. 

Though  Lucan's  subject  be  abundantly  heroic,  yet  I  cannot  reck- 
on him  happy  in  the  choice  of  it.  It  has  two  defects.  The  one  is, 
that  civil  wars,  especially  when  as  fierce  and  cruel  as  those  of  the 
Romans,  present  too  many  shocking  objects  to  be  fit  for  epic  poetry, 
and  give  odious  and  disgusting  views  of  human  nature.  Gallant  ancl^ 
honourable  achievements  furnish  a  more  proper  theme  for  the  epic 
muse.  But  Lucan's  genius,  it  must  be  confessed,  seems  to  delight 
in  savage  scenes  ;  he  dwells  upon  them  too  much  ;  and  not  content 
with  those  which  his  subject  naturally  furnished,  he  goes  out  of  his 
way  to  introduce  a  long  episode  of  Marius  and  Sylla's  proscriptions, 
which  abounds  with  all  the  forms  of  atrocious  cruelty. 

The  other  defect  of  Lucan's  subject  is,  its  being  too  near  the 
times  in  which  he  lived.  This  is  a  circumstance,  as  I  observed  in  a 
former  lecture,  always  unfortunate  for  a  poet ;  as  it  deprives  him  of 
the  assistance  of  fiction  and  machinery,  and  thereby  renders  his  work 
less  splendid  and  amusing.  Lucan  has  submitted  to  this  disadvan 
tage  of  his  subject ;  and  in  doing  so,  he  has  acted  with  more  pro 
priety  than  if  he  had  made  an  unseasonable  attempt  to  embellish  it 
with  machinery  ;  for  the  fables  of  the  gods  would  have  made  a  verj 


194  THE  PHARSALIA  OF  LUCAN.     [lect.  xliv 

unnatural  mixture  with  the  exploits  of  Caesar  and  Pompey  ;  and  in 
stead  of  raising,  would  have  diminished  the  dignity  of  such  recent 
and  well-known  facts. 

With  regard  to  characters,  Lucan  draws  them  with  spirit,  and  with 
force.  But  though  Pompey  be  his  professed  hero,  he  does  not  suc- 
ceed in  interesting  us  much  in  his  favour.  Pompey  is  not  made  tc 
possess  any  high  distinction,  either  for  magnanimity  in  sentiment,  or 
bravery  in  action ;  but,on  the  contrary,  is  always  eclipsed  by  the  su- 
perior abilities  of  Caesar.  Cato  is,  in  truth,  Lucan's  favourite  charac- 
ter ;  and  wherever  he  introduces  him,  he  appears  to  rise  above  him- 
self. Some  of  the  noblest  and  most  conspicuous  passages  in  the 
work,  are  such  as  rebate  to  Cato  ;  either  speeches  put  into  his  mouth, 
or  descriptions  of  his  behaviour.  His  speech  in  particular  to  Labi- 
enus,  who  urged  him  to  inquire  at  the  oracle  of  Jupiter  Amraon,  con- 
cerning the  issue  of  the  war,  (book  ix.  564.)  deserves  to  be  remark- 
ed, as  equal,  for  moral  sublimity,  to  any  thing  that  is  to  be  found  in 
all  antiquity. 

In  the  conduct  of  the  stoiy,  our  author  has  attached  himself  toe 
much  to  chronological  order.  This  renders  the  thread  of  his  narra- 
tion broken  and  interrupted,  and  makes  him  hurry  us  too  often  from 
place  to  place.  He  is  too  digressive  also;  frequently  turning  aside 
from  his  subject,  to  give  us,  sometimes,  geographical  descriptions  of 
a  country ;  sometimes,philosophical  disquisitions  concerning  natural 
objects;  as,  concerning  the  African  serpents  in  the  ninth  book,  and 
the  sources  of  the  Nile  in  the  tenth. 

There  are  in  the  Pharsalia  several  very  poetical  and  spirited  de- 
scriptions. But  the  author's  chief  strength  does  not  lie  either  in 
narration  or  description.  His  narration  is  often  dry  and  harsh  • 
his  descriptions  are  often  over-wrought,  and  employed  too  upon 
disagreeable  objects.  His  principal  merit  consists  in  his  sentiments, 
which  are  generally  noble  and  striking,  and  expressed  in  that  glow- 
ing and  ardent  manner,  which  peculiarly  distinguishes  him.  Lucan 
is  the  most  philosophical  and  the  most  public-spirited  poet  of  all 
antiquity.  He  was  the  nephew  of  the  famous  Seneca,  the  philo- 
sopher; was  himself  a  stoic;  and  the  spirit  of  that  philosophy 
breathes  throughout  his  poem.  We  must  observe  too,  that  he  is  the 
only  ancient  epic  poet  whom  the  subject  of  his  poem  really  and 
deeply  interested.  Lucan  recounted  no  fiction.  He  was  a  Roman, 
and  had  felt  all  the  direful  effects  of  the  Roman  civil  wars,  and  of 
that  severe  despotism  which  succeeded  the  loss  of  liberty.  His  high 
and  bold  spirit  made  him  enter  deeply  into  this  subject,  and  kin- 
dle, on  many  occa:ions,  into  the  most  real  warmth.  Hence,  h» 
abounds  in  exclamations  and  apostrophes,  which  are,  almost  al 
ways,  well-timed,  and  supported  with  a  vivacity  and  fire  thaf  do  him 
no  small  honour. 

But  it  is  the  fate  of  this  poet,  that  his  beauties  can  never  be  men- 
tioned without  their  suggesting  his  blemishes  also.  As  his  princi- 
pal excellency  is  a  lively  and  glowing  genius,  which  appears,  some- 
times in  his  descriptions,  and  very  often  in  his  sentiments,  his  great 
defect  in  both  is,  uanC  of  moderation      He  carries  every  thing  to 


t.ect.  xliv.]         THE  PHARSALIA  OF  LUCAx^.  495 

an  extreme.  He  knows  not  where  to  stop.  From  an  effort  to  ag- 
grandize his  objects,  he  becomes  tumid  and  unnatural  :  and  it  fre- 
quently happens,  that  where  the  second  line  of  one  of  his  descrip- 
tions is  sublime,  the  third,  in  which  he  meant  to  rise  still  higher,  is 
perfectly  bombast.  Lucan  lived  in  an  age  when  the  schools  of  tie 
de-jlaimers  had  begun  to  corrupt  the  eloquence  and  taste  of  Rome. 
He  was  not  free  from  the  infection  ;  and  too  often,  instead  of  show- 
ing the  genius  of  the  poet,  betrays  the  spirit  of  the  declaimer. 

On  the  whole,  however,  he  is  an  author  of  lively  and  original 
genius.  His  sentiments  are  so  high,  and  his  fire,  on  occasions,  so 
great,  as  to  atone  for  many  of  his  defects;  and  passages  may  be  pro- 
duced from  him,  which  are  inferior  to  none  in  any  poet  whatever 
The  characters,  for  instance,  which  he  draws  of  Pompey  and  Cae 
sar,  in  the  first  book,  are  masterly ;  and  the  comparison  of  Pompey 
to  the  aged  decaying  oak,  is  highly  poetical : 

totus  popularibus  aoris 

Impelli,  plausuque  sui  gaudere  theatri ; 

Nee  reparare  novas  vires,  multumque  priori 

Credere  fortune  ;  stat  magni  nominis  umbra. 

Qualis,  frugifero  quercus  sublimis  in  agro, 

Exuvias  veteres  populi  sacrataque  gestans 

Donaducum;  nee  jam  validis  radicibus  barrens, 

Pondere  fixa  suo  est,  nudosque  per  aera  ramos 

Effundens,  trunco,  non  irondibus,  efficit  umbram. 

At,  quamvis  primo  nutet  casura  sub  Euro, 

Et  circum  silva?  firmo  se  robore  tollant, 

Sola  tamen  colitur.     Sed  non  in  Casare  tantum 

Nomen  erat,  nee  fama  ducis,  sed  nescia  virtus 

Stare  loco,  solusque  pudor  non  vincere  bello  ; 

Acer  et  indomitus.* L.  i.  132. 

But  when  we  consider  the  whole  execution  of  his  poem,  we  are 
obliged  to  pronounce,  that  his  poetical  fire  was  not  under  the 
government  of  either  sound  judgment  or  correct  taste.  His  genius 
had  strength,  but  not  tenderness;  nothing  of  what  might  be  called 
amenity,  or  sweetness.  In  his  style  there  is  abundance  of  force  : 
but  a  mixture  of  harshness,  and  frequently  of  obscurity,  occasioned 
by  his  desire  of  expressing  himself  in  a  pointed  and  unusual  man- 
ner. Compared  with  Virgil,  he  may  be  allowed  to  have  more  fire 
and  higher  sentiments,  but  in  every  thing  else,  falls  infinitely  below 
him,  particularly  in  purity,  elegance,  and  tenderness. 


•  With  gifts  and  liberal  bounty  sought  for  fame, 
And  lov'd  to  hear  the  vulgar  shout  his  name  ; 
In  his  own  theatre  rejoie'd  to  sit, 
Amidst  the  noisy  praises  of  the  pit. 
Careless  of  future  ills  that  might  betide, 
No  aid  he  sought  to  prop  his  falling  side, 
But  on  his  former  fortune  much  rely'd. 
Still  seem'd  he  to  possess,  and  fil.  his  place; 
But  stood  the  shadow  of  what  once  he  was 
3o,  in  the  field  with  Ceres'  bounty  spread, 
Uprears  some  ancient  oak  his  rev'rend  head  : 
Chaplets  and  sacred  gifts  his  boughs  adorn, 
And  spoils  of  war  by  mighty  heroes  worn  , 


496  TASSO'S  JERUSALEM.  [lect.  xliv 

As  Statius  and  Silius  Italicus,  though  they  be  poets  of  the  epic 
class,  are  too  inconsiderable  for  particular  criticism,  I  proceed  next 
to  Tasso,  the  most  distinguished  epic  poet  in  modern  ages. 

His  Jerusalem  Delivered  was  published  in  the  year  1574.  It  is 
a  poem  regularly  and  strictly  epic  in  its  whole  construction  :  and 
adorned  with  all  the  beauties  that  belong  to  that  species  of  compo- 
sition. The  subject  is,  the  recovery  of  Jerusalem  from  the  infi- 
dels, by  the  united  powers  of  Christendom  ;  which,  in  itself,  and 
more  especially  according  to  the  ideas  of  Tasso's  age,  was  a  splen- 
did, venerable,  and  heroic  enterprise.  The  opposition  of  the  Chris- 
tians to  the  Saracens,  forms  an  interesting  contrast.  The  subject 
produces  none  of  those  fierce  and  shocking  scenes  of  civil  discord, 
which  hurt  the  mind  in  Lucan;  but  exhibits  the  efforts  of  zeal  and 
bravery,  inspired  by  an  honourable  object.  The  share  which  reli- 
gion possesses  in  the  enterprise,  both  tends  to  render  it  more  au- 
gust, and  opens  a  natural  field  for  machinery,  and  sublime  descrip- 
tion. The  action,  too,  lies  in  a  country,  and  at  a  period  of  time, 
sufficiently  remote  to  allow  an  intermixture  of  fabulous  tradition 
and  fiction  with  true  history. 

In  the  conduct  of  the  story,  Tasso  has  shown  a  rich  and  fertile 
invention,  which,  in  a  poet,  is  a  capital  quality.  He  is  full  of  events  ; 
and  those, too, abundantly  various,  and  diversified  in  their  kind.  He 
never  allows  us  to  be  tired  by  mere  war  and  fighting.  He  frequently 
shifts  the  scene  ;  and,  from  camps  and  battles,  transports  us  to  more 
pleasing  objects.  Sometimes  the  solemnities  of  religion;  some- 
times the  intrigues  of  love ;  at  other  times,  the  adventures  of 
a  journey,  or  even  the  incidents  of  pastoral  life,  relieve  and  enter- 
tain the  reader.  At  the  same  time,  the  whole  work  is  artfully  con- 
nected ;  and  while  there  is  much  variety  in  the  parts,  there  is  per- 
fect unity  in  the  plan.  The  recovery  of  Jerusalem  is  the  object 
kept  in  view  through  the  whole,  and  with  it  the  poem  closes.  All 
the  episodes,  if  we  except  that  of  Olindo  and  Sophronia,  in  the 
second  book,  on  which  I  formerly  passed  a  censure,  are  sufficiently 
i  elated  to  the  main  subject  of  the  poem. 


But  the  first  vigour  of  his  root  now  gone, 

He  stands  dependent  on  his  weight  alone  ; 

All  bare  his  naked  branches  are  display'd, 

And  with  his  leafless  trunk  he  forms  a  shade. 

Yet,  though  the  winds  his  ruin  daily  threat, 

As  every  blast  would  heave  him  from  his  seat ; 

Though  thousand  fairer  trees  the  field  supplies, 

That,  rich  m  youthful  verdure,  round  him  rise, 

f'ix'd  in  his  ancient  seat,  he  yields  to  none, 

And  wears  the  honours  of  the  grove  alone. 

But  Caesar's  greatness,  and  his  strength,  was  more 

Than  past  renown  and  antiquated  power  ; 

'Twas  not  the  faoie  of  what  he  once  had  been, 

Or  tales  in  old  records  or  annals  seen  ; 

But  'twas  a  valour  restless,  unconfin'd, 

Which  no  success  could  sate,  nor  limits  bind  ; 

'Twas  shame,  a  soldier's  shame,  untaught  to  yield, 

That  blush'ri  for  nothing  but  an  ill-fought  field. — Rows 


lect.  xliv.J  TASSO'S  JERUSALEM.  4M 

The  poem  is  enlivened  with  a  variety  of  characters,  and  those  too 
both  clearly  marked  and  well  supported.  Godfrey,  the  leader  of 
the  enterprise,  prudent,  moderate,  brave;  Tancred,  amorous,  gene- 
rous, and  gallant,  and  well  contrasted  with  the  fierce  and  brutal  Ar- 
gantes;  Rinaldo,  (who  is  properly  the  hero  of  the  poem,  and  is  in 
part  copied  after  Homer's  Achilles,)  passionate  and  resentful,  sedi.c 
ed  by  the  allurements  of  Armida ;  but  a  personage,  on  the  whole, 
of  much  zeal,  honour,  and  heroism.  The  brave  and  high-minded 
Solyman,  the  tender  Erminia,  the  artful  and  violent  Armida,  the 
masculine  Clorinda,  are  all  of  them  well  drawn  and  animated 
figures.  In  the  characteristical  part,  Tasso  is  indeed  remarkably  dis- 
tinguished ;  he  is,  in  this  respect,  superior  to  Virgil ;  and  yields  to 
no  poet  except  Homer. 

He  abounds  very  much  with  machinery;  and  in  this  part  of  the 
work  his  merit  is  more  dubious.  Wherever  celestial  beings  are  made 
to  interpose,  his  machinery  is  noble.  God  looking  down  upon  the 
hosts,  and,  on  different  occasions,  sending  an  angel  to  check  the  Pa- 
gans, and  to  rebuke  the  evil  spirits,  produces  a  sublime  effect.  The 
description  of  hell  too,  with  the  appearance  and  speech  of  Satan,  in 
the  beginning  of  the  4th  book,  is  extremely  striking ;  and  plainly  has 
been  imitated  by  Milton,  though  he  must  be  allowed  to  have  im- 
proved upon  it.  But  the  devils,  the  enchanters,  and  the  conjurors, 
act  too  great  a  part  throughout  Tasso's  poem;  and  form  a  sort  of 
dark  and  gloomy  machinery,  not  pleasing  to  the  imagination.  The 
enchanted  wood,  on  which  the  nodus,  or  intrigue  of  the  poem,  is 
made  in  a  great  measure  to  depend;  the  messengers  sent  in  quest 
of  Rinaldo,  in  order  that  he  may  break  the  charm;  their  being  con- 
ducted by  a  hermit  to  a  cave  in  the  centre  of  the  earth;  the  won- 
derful voyage  which  they  make  to  the  fortunate  islands;  and  their 
recovering  Rinaldo  from  the  charms  of  Armida  and  voluptuousness; 
are  scenes  which,  though  very  amusing,  and  described  with  the  high 
est  beauty  of  poetry,  yet  must  be  confessed  to  carry  the  marvellous 
to  a  degree  of  extravagance. 

In  general,  that  for  which  Tasso  is  most  liable  to  censure,  is  a 
certain  romantic  vein,  which  runs  through  many  of  the  adventures 
and  incidents  of  his  poem.  The  objects  which  he  presents  to  us, 
are  always  great;  but,  sometimes,  too  remote  from  probability. 
He  retains  somewhat  of  the  taste  of  his  age,  which  was  not  reclaimed 
from  an  extravagant  admiration  of  the  stories  of  knight-errantry ; 
stories,  which  the  wild,  but  rich  and  agreeable  imagination  of  Arios- 
to,  had  raised  into  fresh  reputation.  In  apology,  however,  for  Tasso, 
it  may  be  said,  that  he  is  not  more  marvellous  and  romantic  than 
either  Homer  or  Virgil.  All  the  difference  is,  that  in  the  one  we 
find  the  romance  of  paganism,  in  the  other,  that  of  chivalry. 

With  all  the  beauties  of  description,  and  of  poetical  style,  Tasso 
remarkably  abounds.  Both  his  descriptions  and  his  style  are  much 
diversified,  and  well  suited  to  each  other.  In  describing  magnificent 
objects,  his  style  is  firm  and  majestic;  when  he  descends  to  gay  and 
pleasing  ones,  such  as  Erminia's  pastoral  retreat  in  the  seventh  book, 
4  C  63 


t98  ORLANDO  FURIOSO  OF  ARIOSTO.     [lect.  xliv 

and  the  arts  and  beauty  of  Armida  in  the  fourth  book,  it  is  soft  and 
insinuating.  Both  those  descriptions  which  I  have  mentioned,  are 
exquisite  in  their  kind.  His  battles  are  animated,  and  very  properly 
varied  in  the  incidents ;  inferior  however  to  Homer's,  in  point  of 
spirit  and  fire. 

In  his  sentiments,  Tasso  is  not  so  happy  as  in  his  descriptions.    It 
is  indeed  rather  by  actions,  characters,  and  descriptions,  that  he  in 
terests  us,  than  by  the  sentimental  part  of  the  work.     He  is  far  infe- 
rior to  Virgil  in  tenderness.     When  he  aims  at  being  pathetic  and 
sentimental  in  his  speeches,  he  is  apt  to  become  artificial  and  strained. 

With  regard  to  points  and  conceits,  with  which  he  has  often  been 
reproached,  the  censure  has  been  carried  too  far.  Affectation  is  by 
no  means  the  general  character  of  Tasso's  manner,  which,  upon  the 
whole,  is  masculine,  strong,  and  correct.  On  some  occasions,  indeed, 
especially,  as  I  just  now  observed,  when  he  seeks  to  be  tender,  he 
degenerates  into  forced  and  unnatural  ideas;  but  these  are  far  from 
being  so  frequent  or  common  as  has  been  supposed.  Threescore 
or  fourscore  lines  retrenched  from  the  poem,  would  fully  clear  it,  I 
am  persuaded,  of  all  such  exceptionable  passages. 

With  Boileau,  Dacier,  and  the  other  French  critics  of  the  last  age, 
the  humour  prevailed  of  decrying  Tasso  ;  and  passed  from  them  to 
some  of  the  English  writers.  But  one  would  be  apt  to  imagine,  they 
were  not  much  acquainted  with  Tasso ;  or  at  least  they  must  have  read 
him  under  the  influence  of  strong  prejudices.  For  to  me  it  appears 
clear,  that  the  Jerusalem  is,  in  rank  and  dignity,  the  third  regular 
epic  poem  in  the  world;  and  comes  next  to  the  Iliad  and  iEneid. 

Tasso  may  be  justly  held  inferior  to  Homer,  in  simplicity  and  in 
fire;  to  Virgil,  in  tenderness;  to  Milton,  in  daring  sublimity  of  geni- 
us; but  he  yields  to  no  other  in  any  poetical  talents ;  and  for  fertility 
of  invention,  variety  of  incidents,  expression  of  characters,  richness 
of  description,  and  beauty  of  style,  I  know  no  poet,  except  the  three 
just  named,  that  can  be  compared  to  him. 

Arioslo,  the  great  rival  of  Tasso  in  Italian  poetry,  cannot,  with  any 
propriety,  be  classed  among  the  epic  writers.  The  fundamental 
rule  of  epic  composition  is,  to  recount  an  heroic  enterprise,  and  to 
form  it  into  a  regular  story.  Though  there  is  a  sort  of  unity  and 
connexion  in  the  plan  of  Orlando  Furioso,  yet,  instead  of  rendering 
this  apparent  to  the  reader,  it  seems  to  have  been  the  author's  in- 
tention to  keep  it  out  of  view  by  the  desultory  manner  in  which  the 
poem  is  carried  on,  and  the  perpetual  interruptions  of  the  several 
•  stories  before  they  are  finished.  Ariosto  appears  to  have  despised  all 
regularity  of  plan,  and  to  have  chosen  to  give  loose  reins  to  a  copious 
and  rich,  but  extravagant  fancy.  At  the  same  time,  there  is  so  much 
epic  matter  in  the  Orlando  Furioso,  that  it  would  be  improper  to 
pass  it  by  without  some  notice.  It  unites,  indeed,  all  sorts  of  poetry ; 
sometimes  comic  and  satiric;  sometimes  light  and  licentious;  at 
other  times,  highly  heroic,  descriptive,  and  tender.  Whatever  strain 
the  poet  assumes,  he  excels  in  it.  He  is  always  master  of  his  sub- 
ject; seems  himself  to  play  with  it;  and  leaves  us  sometimes  at  a 
'oss  to  know  whether  he  be  serious  or  in  jest.     He  is  seldom  dra 


lect.  xliv.]  CAMOENS'  LUSIAD.  499 

matic;  sometimes,  but  not  often,  sentimental ;  but  in  narration  and 
description,  perhaps  no  poet  ever  went  beyond  him.  He  makes  every 
scene  which  he  describes,  and  every  event  which  he  relates,  pass 
before  our  eyes ;  and  in  his  selection  of  circumstances,  is  eminently 
picturesque.  His  style  is  much  varied,  always  suited  to  the  subject, 
and  adorned  with  a  remarkably  smooth  and  melodious  versification. 

As  the  Italians  make  their  boast  of  Tasso,  so  do  the  Portuguese  of 
Camoe  ns ;  who  was  nearly  contemporary  with  Tasso,  but  whose  poem 
was  published  before  the  Jerusalem.  The  subject  of  it  is  the  first 
discovery  of  the  East  Indies  by  Vasco  de  Gama  ;  an  enterprise 
splendid  in  its  nature,  and  extremely  interesting  to  the  countrymen 
of  Camoens,  as  it  laid  the  foundation  of  their  future  wealth  and  con- 
sideration in  Europe.  The  poem  opens  with  Vasco  and  his  fleet  ap- 
pearing on  the  ocean,  between  the  island  of  Madagascar  and  the 
coast  of  ^Ethiopia.  After  various  attempts  to  land  on  that  coast, 
they  are  -at  last  heritably  received  in  the  kingdom  of  Melinda. 
Vasco,  at  the  desire  of  the  king,  gives  him  an  account  of  Europe, 
recites  a  poetical  history  of  Portugal,  and  relates  all  the  adventures 
of  the  voyage,  which  had  preceded  the  opening  of  the  poem.  This 
recital  takes  up  three  cantos  or  books.  It  is  well  imagined  ;  contain  s 
a  great  many  poetical  beauties  ;  and  has  no  defect,  except  that  Vasco 
makes  an  unseasonable  display  of  learning  to  the  African  prince,  in 
frequent  allusions  to  the  Greek  and  Roman  histories.  Vasco  and  his 
countrymen  afterwards  set  forth  to  pursue  their  voyage.  The 
storms  and  distresses  which  they  encounter;  their  arrival  at  Cale- 
cut,  on  the  Malabar  coast;  their  reception  and  adventures  in  that 
country,  and  at  last  their  return  homewards,  fill  up  the  rest  of  the 
poem. 

The  whole  work  is  conducted  according  to  the  epic  plan.  Both 
the  subject  and  the  incidents  are  magnificent;  and,  joined  with  some 
wildness  and  irregularity,  there  appear  in  the  execution  much  poetic 
spirit,  strong  fancy,  and  bold  description  ;  as  far  as  I  can  judge  from 
translations,  without  any  knowledge  of  the  original.  (  There  is  no 
attempt  towards  painting  characters  in  the  poem  ;  Vasco  is  the  hero, 
and  the  only  personage  indeed  that  makes  any  figure. 

The  machinery  of  the  Lusiad  is  perfectly  extravagant;  not  only 
is  it  formed  of  a  singular  mixture  of  Christian  ideas,  and  Pagan  my- 
thology ;  but  it  is  so  conducted,  that  the  Pagan  gods  appear  to  be 
the  true  deities,  and  Christ  and  the  Blessed  Virgin,  to  be  suboidi- 
nate  agents.  One  great  scope- of  the  Portuguese  expedition,  our 
author  informs  us,  is  to  propagate  the  Christian  faith,  and  to  extir- 
pate Mahometanism.  In  this  religious  undertaking,  the  great  pro- 
tector of  the  Portuguese  is  Venus,  and  their  great  adversary  is  Bac- 
chus, whose  displeasure  is  excited  by  Vasco's  attempting  to  rival 
his  fame  in  the  Indies.  Councils  of  the  gods  are  held,  in  which  Ju- 
piter is  introduced  as  foretelling  the  downfall  of  Mahometanism,  and 
the  propagation  of  the  Gospel.  Vasco,  in  great  distress  from  a  storm, 
prays  most  seriously  to  God  ;  implores  the  aid  of  Christ  and  the 
Virgin,  and  begs  for  such  assistance  as  was  given  to  the  Israelites, 
when  they  were  passing  through  the  Red  Sea,  and  to  the  Apostle 


500  FENELON'S  TELEMACHUS.  [lect.  xliv. 

Paul,  when  he  was  in  hazard  of  shipwreck.  In  return  to  this  prayer, 
Venus  appears,  who,  discerning  the  storm  to  be  the  work  of  Bac- 
chus, complains  to  Jupi'.er,  and  procures  the  winds  to  be  calmed. 
Such  strange  and  preposterous  machinery,  shows  how  much  authors 
have  been  misled  by  the  absurd  opinion,  that  there  could  be  no  epic 
poetry  without  the  gods  of  Homer.  Towards  the  end  of  the  work, 
indeed,  the  author  gives  us  an  awkward  salvo  for  his  whole  mytho- 
logy ;  making  the  goddess  Thetis  inform  Vasco,  that  she,  and  the 
rest  of  the  heathen  deities,  are  no  more  than  names  to  describe  the 
operations  of  Providence 

There  is,  however,  some  fine  machinery,  of  a  different  kind,  in 
the  Lusiad.  The  genius  of  the  river  Ganges  appearing  to  Emanuel, 
king  of  Portugal,  in  a  dream,  inviting  that  prince  to  discover  his 
secret  springs,  and  acquainting  him,  that  he  was  the  destined  mon- 
arch for  whom  the  treasures  of  the  East  were  reserved,  is  a  happy 
idea.  But  the  noblest  conception  of  this  sort,  is  in  the  fifth  canto, 
where  Vasco  is  recounting  to  the  king  of  Melinda,  all  the  wonders 
which  he  met  with  in  his  navigation.  He  tells  him,  that  when  the 
fleet  arrived  at  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  which  never  before  had  been 
doubled  by  any  navigator,  there  appeared  to  them,  on  a  sudden,  a 
huge  and  monstrous  phantom,  rising  out  of  the  sea,  in  the  midst  of 
tempests  and  thunders,  with  a  head  that  reached  the  clouds,  and  a 
countenance  that  filled  them  with  terror.  This  was  the  genius,  or 
guardian,  of  that  hitherto  unknown  ocean.  It  spoke  to  them  with 
a  voice  like  thunder;  menacing  them  for  invading  those  seas  which 
he  had  so  long  possessed  undisturbed  ;  and  for  daring  to  explore 
those  secrets  of  the  deep,  which  never  had  been  revealed  to  the  eye 
of  mortals  :  required  them  to  proceed  no  farther ;  if  they  should 
proceed,  foretold  all  the  successive  calamities  that  were  to  befall 
them  ;  and  then,  with  a  mighty  noise,  disappeared.  This  is  one  of 
the  most  solemn  and  striking  pieces  of  machinery  that  ever  was 
employed  ;  and  is  sufficient  to  show  that  Camoens  is  a  poet,  though 
of  an  irregular,  yet  of  a  bold  and  loftv  imagination  * 

In  reviewing  the  epic  poets,  it  were  unjust  to  make  no  mention  of 
the  amiable  author  of  the  Adventures  of  Telemachus.  His  work, 
though  not  composed  in  verse,  is  justly  entitled  to  be  held  a  poem 
The  measured  poetical  prose,  in  which  it  is  written,  is  remarkably 
harmonious;  and  gives  the  style  nearly  as  much  elevation  as  the 
French  language  is  capable  of  supporting,  even  in  regular  verse. 

The  plan  of  the  work  is,  in  general,  well  contrived  ;  and  is  de- 
ficient neither  in  epic  grandeur,  nor  unity  of  object.  The  author 
has  entered  with  much  felicity  into  the  spirit  and  ideas  of  the  an- 
cient poets,  particularly  into  the  ancient  mythology,  which  retains 
more  dignity,  and  makes  a  better  figure  in  his  hands,  than  in  those 
of  any  other  modern  poet.  His  descriptions  are  rich  and  beautiful; 


*  I  have  made  no  mention  of  the  Araucana,  an  epic  poem,  in  Spanish,  composed  by 
Alonai  d'Ercilla,  because  1  am  unacquainted  with  the  original  language,  and  have 
not  seen  any  translation  of  it.  A  full  account  of  it  is  given  by  Mr  Hayley,  '«  th<j 
%oics  upon  his  essay  on  epic  poetrv. 


lect.  xliv.]         FENELON'iS  TELEMACHUS.  501 

especially  of  the  softer  and  calmer  scenes,  for  which  the  genius  of 
Fenelon  was  hest  suited  ;  such  as  the  incidents  of  pastoral  life,  the 
pleasures  of  virtue,  or  a  country  flourishing  in  peace.  There  is 
an  inimitable  sweetness  and  tenderness  in  several  of  the  pictures 
of  this  kind  which  he  has  given. 

The  best  executed  part  of  the  work,  is  the  first  six  books,  in 
which  Telemachus  recounts  his  adventures  to  Calypso.  The  nar- 
ration, throughout  them,  is  lively  and  interesting.  Afterwards,  es- 
pecially in  the  last  twelve  books,  it  becomes  more  tedious  and  lan- 
gu;d ;  and  in  the  warlike  adventures,  which  are  attempted,  there 
is  :<  great  defect  of  vigour.  The  chief  objection  against  this  work 
being  classed  with  epic  poems,  arises  from  the  minute  details  of 
virtuous  policy,  into  which  the  author  in  some  places  enters  ;  and 
from  the  discourses  and  instructions  of  Mentor,  which  recur  upon 
us  too  often,  and  too  much  in  the  strain  of  common-place  morality. 
Though  these  were  well  suited  to  the  main  design  of  the  author, 
which  was  to  form  the  mind  of  a  young  prince,  yet  they  seem  not 
congruous  to  the  nature  of  epic  poetry  ;  the  object  of  which  is  to 
improve  us  by  means  of  actions,  characters,  and  sentiments,  rather 
than  by  delivering  professed  and  formal  instruction. 

Several  of  the  epic  poets  have  described  a  descent  into  hell ;  and 
in  the  prospects  they  have  given  us  of  the  invisible  world,  we  may 
observe  the  gradual  refinement  of  men's  notions  concerning  a  state 
of  future  rewards  and  punishments.  The  descent  of  Ulysses  into 
hell,  in  Homer's  Odyssey,  presents  to  us  a  very  indistinct  and  dreary 
sort  of  object.  The  scene  is  laid  in  the  country  of  the  Cimmeri- 
ans, which  is  always  covered  with  clouds  and  darkness,  at  the  ex- 
tremity of  the  ocean.  When  the  spirits  of  the  dead  begin  to  ap- 
pear, we  scarcely  know  whether  Ulysses  is  above  ground  or  below 
it.  None  of  the  ghosts,  even  of  the  heroes,  appear  satisfied  with 
their  condition  in  the  other  world  ;  and  when  Ulysses  endeavours 
to  comfort  Achilles,  by  reminding  him  of  the  illustrious  figure 
which  he  must  make  in  those  regions,  Achilles  roundly  tells  him 
that  all  such  speeches  are  idle;  for  he  would  rather  be  a  day-labour- 
er on  earth,  than  have  the  command  of  all  the  dead. 

In  the  sixth  book  of  the  iEneid,  we  discern  a  much  greater  re 
finement  of  ideas,  corresponding  to  the  progress  which  the  world 
had  then  made  in  philosophy.  The  objects  there  delineated,  are 
both  more  clear  and  distinct,  and  more  grand  and  awful.  The  se 
parate  mansions  of  good  and  of  bad  spirits,  with  the  punishments 
of  the  one,  and  the  employments  and  happiness  of  the  other,  are 
finely  described,  and  in  consistency  with  the  most  pure  morality. 
But  the  visit  which  Fenelon  makes  Telemachus  pay  to  the  shades, 
is  much  more  philosophical  still  than  Virgil's.  He  employs  the  same 
fables  and  the  same  mythology  ;  but  we  find  the  ancient  mythology 
refined  by  the  knowledge  of  the  true  religion,  and  adorned  with 
that  beautiful  enthusiasm,  for  which  Fenelon  was  so  distinguished. 
His  account  of  the  happiness  of  the  just  is  an  excellent  description 
in  the  mystic  strain  ;  and  very  expressive  of  the  genius  and  spirit 
of  the  author 


502  VOLTAIRE'S  HENRIADE.  [lect.  xlt\ 

Voltaire  has  given  us,  in  his  Henriade,  a  regular  epic  poem,  in 
French  verse.  In  every  performance  of  that  celebrated  writer,  we 
may  expect  to  find  marks  of  genius  ;  and,  accordingly,  that  work 
discovers,  in  several  places,  that  boldness  in  the  conceptions,  and 
that  liveliness  and  felicity  in  the  expression,  for  which  the  author 
is  so  remarkably  distinguished.  Several  of  the  comparisons,  in 
particular,  which  occur  in  it,  are  both  new  and  happy.  But,  con- 
sidered upon  the  whole,  I  cannot  esteem  it  one  of  his  chief  pro- 
ductions ;  and  am  of  opinion,  that  he  has  succeeded  infinitely  bet- 
ter in  tragic  than  in  epic  composition.  French  versification  seems  ill 
adapted  to  epic  poetry.  Besides  its  being  always  fettered  by  rhyme, 
the  language  never  assumes  a  sufficient  degree  of  elevation  or  ma- 
jesty ;  and  appears  to  be  more  capable  of  expressing  the  tender  in 
tragedy,  than  of  supporting  the  sublime  in  epic.  Hence  a  feeble- 
ness, and  sometimes  a  prosaic  flatness,  in  the  style  of  the  Henriade ; 
and  whether  from  this,  or  from  some  other  cause,  the  poem  often 
languishes.  It  does  not  seize  the  imagination,  nor  interest  and 
carry  the  reader  along,  with  that  ardour  which  ought  to  be  mspired 
by  a  sublime  and  spirited  epic  poem. 

The  subject  of  the  Henriade  is  the  triumph  of  Henry  the  Fourth 
over  the  arms  of  the  League.  The  action  of  the  poem  properly 
includes  only  the  siege  of  Paris.  It  is  an  action  perfectly  epic  in 
its  nature ;  great,  interesting,  and  conducted  with  a  sufficient  re- 
gard to  unity;  and  all  the  other  critical  rules.  But  it  is  liable  to  both 
the  defects  which  I  before  remarked  in  Lucan's  Pharsalia.  It  is 
founded  wholly  on  civil  wars;  and  presents  to  us  those  odious  and 
detestable  objects  of  massacres  and  assassinations,  which  throw  a 
gloom  over  the  poem.  It  is  also,  like  Lucan's,  of  too  recent  a  date, 
and  comes  too  much  within  the  bounds  of  well-known  history.  To 
remedy  this  last  defect,  and  to  remove  the  appearance  of  being  a 
mere  historian,  Voltaire  has  chosen  to  mix  fiction  with  truth.  The 
poem,  for  instance,  opens  with  a  voyage  of  Henry's  to  England, 
and  an  interview  between  him  and  Queen  Elizabeth;  though  every 
one  knows  that  Henry  never  was  in  England,  and  that  these  two 
illustrious  personages  never  met.  In  facts  of  such  public  notorie- 
ty, a  fiction  like  this  shocks  the  reader,  and  forms  an  unnatural  and 
ill-sorted  mixture  with  historical  truth.  The  episode  was  contrived, 
in  order  to  give  Henry  an  opportunity  of  recounting  the  former 
transactions  of  the  civil  wars,  in  imitation  of  the  recital  which 
/Eneas  makes  to  Dido  in  the  JEneld.  But  the  imitation  was  inju- 
dicious. iEneas  might,  with  propriety,  relate  to  Dido  transactions 
of  which  she  was  either  entirely  ignorant,  or  had  acquired  only  an 
imperfect  knowledge  by  flying  reports.  But  Queen  Elizabeth 
could  not  but  be  supposed  to  be  perfectly  apprized  of  all  the  facts, 
which  the  poet  makes  Henry  recite  to  her. 

In  order  to  embellish  his  subject,  Voltaire  has  chosen  to  employ 
a  great  deal  of  machinery.  But  here,  also,  I  am  obliged  to  censure 
his  conduct;  for  the  machinery  which  he  chiefly  employs  is  of  the 
worst  kind,  and  the  least  suited  to  an  epic  poem — that  of  allegorical 
beings.  Discord,  cunning,  and  love,  appear  as  personages,  mix  with 


lect.  xliv.]     MILTON'S  PARADISE  LObT.  503 

the  human  actors,  and  make  a  considerable  figure  in  the  intrigue  of 
the  poem.  This  is  contrary  to  every  rule  of  rational  criticism.  Ghosts, 
angels,  and  devils,  have  popular  belief  on  their  side,  and  may  be  con- 
ceived as  existing.  But  every  one  knows,  that  allegorical  beings  are 
no  more  than  representatives  of  human  dispositions  and  pnssions. 
They  may  be  employed  like  other  personifications  and  figures  of 
speech ;  or  in  a  poem,  that  is  wholly  allegorical,  they  may  occupy 
the  chief  place  ;  they  are  there  in  their  native  and  proper  region . 
But  in  a  poem  which  relates  to  human  transactions,  as  I  had  occasion 
before  to  remark,  when  such  beings  are  described  as  acting  along* 
with  men,  the  imagination  is  confounded ;  it  is  divided  between 
phantasms  and  realities,  and  knows  not  on  what  to  rest. 

In  justice,  however,  to  our  author,  I  must  observe,  that  the  mach* 
nery  of  St.  Louis,  which  he  also  employs,  is  of  a  better  kind,  and 
possesses  real  dignity.  The  finest  passage  in  the  Henriade,  indeed 
one  of  the  finest  that  occurs  in  any  poem,  is  the  prospect  of  the  in- 
visible world,  which  St.  Louis  gives  to  Henry  in  a  dream,  in  the  se- 
venth canto  :  Death  bringing  the  souls  of  the  departed  in  succes- 
sion before  God;  their  astonishment  when,  arriving  from  all  different 
countries  and  religious  sects,  they  are  brought  into  the  Divine  pre- 
sence; when  they  find  their  superstitions  to  be  false,  and  have  the 
truth  unveiled  to  them  ;  the  palace  of  the  Destinies  opened  to  Hen- 
ry, and  the  prospect  of  his  successors  which  is  there  given  him ;  are 
striking  and  magnificent  objects,  and  do  honour  to  the  genius  of 
Voltaire. 

Though  some  of  the  episodes  in  this  poem  are  properly  exten- 
ded, yet  the  narration  is,  on  the  whole,  too  general;  the  events  are 
too  much  crowded,  and  superficially  related  ;  which  is  doubtless,  one 
cause  of  the  poem  making  a  faint  impression.  The  strain  of  senti- 
ment which  runs  through  it,  is  high  and  noble.  Religion  appears,  on 
every  occasion,  with  great  and  proper  lustre ;  and  the  author  breathes 
tha<  spirit  of  humanity  and  toleration,  which  is  conspicuous  in  all 
his  works. 

Milton,  of  whom  it  remains  now  to  speak,  has  chalked  out  for 
himself  a  new  and  very  extraordinary  road  in  poetry.  As  soon  as 
we  open  his  Paradise  Lost,  we  find  ourselves  introduced  all  at  once 
into  an  invisible  world,  and  surrounded  with  celestial  and  infernal 
beings.  Angels  and  devils  are  not  the  machinery,  but  principal  ac- 
tors, in  the  poem ;  and,  what  in  any  other  composition  would  be  the 
marvellous,  is  here  only  the  natural  course  of  events.  A  subject  so 
remote  from  the  affairs  of  this  world,  may  furnish  ground  to  those  who 
think  such  discussions  material,  to  bring  it  into  doubt,  whether  Para- 
dise Lost  can  properly  be  classed  among  epic  poems.  By  whatever 
name  it  is  to  be  called,  it  is,  undoubtedly,  one  of  the  highest  efforts  of 
poetical  genius;  and  in  one  great  characteristic  of  the  epic  poem, 
majesty  and  sublimity,  it.  is  fully  equal  to  any  that  bear  that  name. 

How  far  the  author  was  altogether  happy  in  the  choice  of  his  sub- 
ject, may  be  questioned.  It  has  led  him  into  very  difficult  ground. 
Had  He  taken  a  subject  that  was  more  human,  and  less  theological; 


504  MILTON'S  PARADISE  LOST.     [lect.  xliy 

that  was  more  connected  with  the  occurrences  oflife,  and  afforded 
a  greater  display  of  the  characters  and  passions  of  men,  his  poem 
would,  perhaps,  have,  to  the  bulk  of  readers,  been  more  pleasing 
3:ul  attractive.  But  the  subject  which  he  has  chosen,  suited  the 
daring  sublimity  of  his  genius.*  It  is  a  subject  for  which  Milton 
alone  was  fitted;  and  in  the  conduct  of  it,  he  has  shown  a  stretch 
both  of  imagination  and  invention,  which  is  perfectly  wonderful.  Itis 
astonishing  how,  from  the  few  hints  given  us  in  thesacred  Scriptures, 
he  was  able  to  raise  so  complete  and  regular  a  structure,  and  to  fill 
his  poem  with  such  a  variety  of  incidents.  Dry  and  harsh  passa 
ges  sometimes  occur.  The  author  appears,  upon  some  occasions,  a 
metaphysician  and  a  divine,  rather  than  a  poet.  But  the  general 
tenourof  his  work  is  interesting;  he  seizes  and  fixes  the  imagination; 
engages,  elevates,  and  affects  us  as  we  proceed;  which  is  always  a 
sure  test  of  merit  in  an  epic  composition.  The  artful  change  of  his 
objects;  the  scene  laid  now  in  earth,  now  in  hell,  and  now  in  hea- 
ven, affords  a  sufficient  diversity;  while  unity  of  plan  is,  at  the  same 
time,  perfectly  supported.  We  have  still  life,  and  calm  scenes,  in 
the  employments  of  Adam  and  Eve  in  Paradise  ;  and  we  have  busy 
scenes,  and  great  actions,  in  the  enterprise  of  Satan,  and  the  wars 
of  the  angels.  The  innocence,  purity,  and  amiableness  of  our  first 
parents,  opposed  to  the  pride  and  ambition  of  Satan,  furnishes  a 
happy  contrast,  that  reigns  throughout  the  whole  poem;  only  the 
conclusion,  as  I  before  observed,  is  too  tragic  for  epic  poetry. 

The  nature  of  the  subject  did  not  admit  any  great  display  of  cha- 
racters; but  such  as  could  be  introduced,  are  supported  with  much 
propriety.  Satan,  in  particular,  makes  a  striking  figure,  and  is,  in- 
deed, the  best  drawn  character  in  the  poem.  Milton  has  not  describ- 
ed him  such  as  we  suppose  an  infernal  spirit  to  be.  He  has,  more 
suitably  to  his  own  purpose,  given  him  a  human,  that  is,  a  mixed 
character,  not  altogether  void  of  some  good  qualities.  He  is  brave 
and  faithful  to  his  troops.  In  the  midst  of  his  impiety,  he  is  not 
without  remorse.  He  is  even  touched  with  pity  for  our  first  parents ; 
and  justifies  himself  in  his  design  against  them,  from  the  necessity 
of  his  situation.  He  is  actuated  by  ambition  and  resentment,  ra- 
ther than  by  pure  malice.  In  short,  Milton's  Satan  is  no  worse  than 
many  a  conspirator  or  factious  chief,  that  makes  a  figure  in  history. 
The  different  characters  of  Beelzebub,  Moloch,  Belial,  are  exceed- 
ingly well  painted  in  those  eloquent  speeches  which  they  make  in 
the  second  book.  The  good  angels,  though  always  described  with  dig- 
nity and  propriety,  have  more  uniformity  than  the  infernal  spirits  in 
their  appearance;  though  among  them,  too,  the  dignity  of  Michael, 
the  mild  condescension  of  Raphael,  and  the  tried  fidelity  of  Abdiel, 
form  proper  characteristical  distinctions.  The  attempt  to  describe 
God  Almighty  himself,  and  to  recount  dialogues  between  the  Father 

*  "He  seems  to  have  been  well  acquainted  with  his  own  genius,  and  to  know  what 
it  was  that  nature  had  bestowed  upon  him  more  bountifully  than  upon  others  ;  the  pow- 
er of  displaying  the  vast,  illuminating-  the  splendid,  enforcing  the  awful,  darkening  the 
gloomy,  and  aggravating  the  dreadful.  He  therefore  chose  a  subject,  on  which  too 
much  could  i>ot  be  said  ;  on  which  he  might  tire  his  fancy,  without  the  censure  of  ex 
♦ravagance  '  Dr.  Johnson's  Life  of  Milton. 


lect.xliv.]         MILTON'S  PARADISE  LOST.  505 

and  the  Son,  was  too  bold  and  arduous,  and  is  that  wherein  our  poet, 
as  was  to  have  been  expected,  has  been  most  unsuccessful.  With  re 
gard  to  his  human  characters,  the  innocence  of  our  first  parents,  and 
their  love,  are  finely  and  delicately  painted.  In  some  of  his  speeches 
to  Raphael  and  to  Eve,  Adam  is,  perhaps,  too  knowing  and  refined 
for  his  situation.  Eve  is  more  distinctly  characterized.  Her  gentle- 
ness, modesty,  and  frailty,  mark  very  expressively  a  female  character. 

Milton's  great  and  distinguishing  excellence  is,  his  sublimity.  In 
this,  perhaps,  he  excels  Homer ;  as  there  is  no  doubt  of  his  leaving 
Virgil,  and  every  other  poet,  far  behind  him.  Almost  the  whole  of 
the  first  and  second  books  of  Paradise  Lost,  are  continued  instan- 
ces of  the  sublime.  The  prospect  of  hell  and  of  the  fallen  host, 
the  appearance  and  behaviour  of  Satan,  the  consultation  of  the  in- 
fernal chiefs, and  Satan's  flight  through  chaos  to  the  borders  of  this 
world,  discover  the  most  lofty  ideas  that  ever  entered  into  the  con- 
ception of  any  poet.  In  the  sixth  book,  also,  there  is  much  grandeur, 
particularly  in  the  appearance  of  the  Messiah  ;  though  some  parts 
of  that,  book  are  censurable;  and  the  witticisms  of  the  devils  upon 
the  effect  of  their  artillery,  form  an  intolerable  blemish.  Milton's 
sublimity  is  of  a  different  kind  from  that  of  Homer.  Homer's  is 
generally  accompanied  with  fire  and  impetuosity:  Milton's  pos- 
sesses more  of  a  calm  and  amazing  grandeur.  Homer  warms  and 
hurries  us  along;  Milton  fixes  us  in  a  state  of  astonishment  anc' 
elevation.  Homer's  sublimity  appears  most  in  the  description  o\ 
actions ;  Milton's,  in  that  of  wonderful  and  stupendous  objects. 

But  though  Milton  is  most  distinguished  for  his  sublimity,  yet 
there  is  also  much  of  the  beautiful,  the  tender,  and  the  pleasing,  in 
many  parts  of  his  work.  When  the  scene  is  laid  in  Paradise,  the 
imagery  is  always  of  the  most  gay  and  smiling  kind.  His  descrip- 
tions show  an  uncommonly  fertile  imagination  ;  and  in  his  similes, 
he  is,  for  the  most  part,  remarkably  happy.  They  are  seldom  im- 
properly introduced  ;  seldom  either  low  or  trite.  They  generally 
present  to  us  images  taken  from  the  sublime  or  the  beautiful  class 
of  objects  ;  if  they  have  any  faults,  it  is  their  alluding  too  frequent- 
ly to  matters  of  learning,  and  to  fables  of  antiquity.  In  the  latter 
part  of  Paradise  Lost,  there  must  be  confessed  to  be  a  falling  off. 
With  the  fall  of  our  first  parents,  Milton's  genius  seems  to  decline. 
Beauties,  however,  there  are,  in  the  concluding  books,  of  the  tra- 
gic kind.  The  remorse  and  contrition  of  the  guilty  pair,  and  their 
lamentations  over  Paradise,  when  they  are  obliged  to  leave  it,  are 
very  moving.  The  last  episode,  of  the  angel's  showing  Adam  the 
fate  of  his  posterity,  is  happily  imagined  ;  but,  in  many  places,  the 
execution  is  languid. 

Milton's  language  and  versification  have  high  merit.  His  style 
is  full  of  majesty,  and  wonderfully  adapted  to  his  subject.  His  blank 
verse  is  harmonious  and  diversified,  and  affords  the  most  complete 
example  of  the  elevation  which  our  language  is  capable  of  attaining 
Dy  the  force  of  numbers.  It  does  not  flow,  like  the  French  verse, 
in  tame,  regular,  uniform  melody,  which  soon  tires  the  ear :  but  is 
4D  64 


506 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  xliv 


sometimes  smooth  and  flowing,  sometimes  rough  ;  varied  in  its  ca 
dence,  and  intermixed  with  discords,  so  as  to  suit  the  strength  and 
freedom  of  epic  composition.  Neglected  and  prosaic  lines,  indeed, 
we  sometimes  meet  with ;  but,  in  a  work  so  long,  and  in  the  main 
so  harmonious,  these  may  be  forgiven. 

On  the  whole,  Paradise  Lost  is  a  poem  that  abounds  with  beauties 
of  every  kind,  and  that  justly  entitles  its  author  to  a  degree  of  fame 
not  inferior  to  any  poet ;  though  it  must  be  also  admitted  to  have 
many  inequalities.  It  is  the  lot  of  almost  every  high  and  daring  genius, 
not  to  be  uniform  and  correct.  Milton  is  too  frequently  theological 
and  metaphysical ;  sometimes  harsh  in  his  language  ;  often  too  tech- 
nical in  his  words,  and  affectedly  ostentatious  of  his  learning.  Many 
of  his  faults  must  be  attributed  to  the  pedantry  of  the  age  in  which 
he  lived.  He  discovers  a  vigour,  a  grasp  of  genius,  equal  to  every 
thing  that  is  great ;  if,  at  some  times,  he  falls  much  below  himself,  at 
other  times  he  rises  above  every  poet  of  the  ancient  or  modern  world. 


Q,UESTIOXS. 


After  Homer  and  Virgil,  who  is 
the  next  great  epic  poet  of  ancient 
times  ?  Why  does  he  deserve  atten- 
tion ?  Of  his  Pharsalia,  what  is  obser- 
ved ?  What  was  formerly  remarked  ? 
What  does  the  subject  of  the  Pharsalia 
carry  1  What  does  it  not  want  ?  As  it 
stands  at  present,  what  is  said  of  it ; 
but  what  follows  ?  Of  Lucan's  subject, 
what  is  remarked  ?  Of  its  two  defects, 
what  is  the  first  ?  What  furnish  a  more 
proper  theme  for  the  epic  muse  ?  But 
of  Lucan's  genius,  what  must  be  con- 
fessed? What  is  the  other  defect  of 
the  subject  ?  Why  is  this  always  un- 
fortunate for  a  poet?  What  remark 
follows  ?  How  are  Lucan's  characters 
drawn  ?  Of  Pompey,  what  is  observed ; 
and  by  whom  is  he  always  eclipsed  ? 
What  is  said  of  Cato ;  and  of  his  speech 
to  Labienus,  what  is  observed?  In  the 
conduct  of  the  story,  to  what  has  our 
author  too  much  attached  himself;  and 
what  is  the  effect  of  this  ?  From  what 
does  it  appear  that  he  is  too  digressive 
also  ?  What  are  there  in  the  Pharsa- 
lia ;  but  in  what  does  our  author's  chief 
strength  lie  ?  Of  his  narration,  and  of 
his  descript'ons,  what  is  observed  ?  In 
what  does  his  principal  merit  consist ; 
and  what  is  said  of  them  ?  In  what  does 
Lucan  surpass  all  the  poets  of  antiqui- 
ty ;  nnd  of  him,  what  is  farther  obser- 
ved ?  What  must  we,  also,  observe  ? 
How  is  this  remark  illustrated  ?  Hence, 
,ii  what  does  lie  abound,  and  of  them,  J 


what  is  remarked  ?  But  what  is  the 
fate  of  this  poet  ?  How  is  this  illustra- 
ted ?  In  what  age  did  Lucan  live,  and 
what  was  the  consequence  ?  On  the 
whole,  he  is  an  author  possessing  what  ? 
What  atone  for  many  of  his  defects ; 
and  from  him,  what  may  be  produced  ? 
What  instances  are  given,  illustrative 
of  this  remark  ?  Repeat  the  passage  in 
which  Pompey  is  compared  to  the  an- 
cient decaying  oak.  But  when  we  con- 
sider the  whole  execution  of  his  poem, 
what  are  we  obliged  to  pronounce? 
What  had  his  genius ;  but  of  what  was 
it  destitute  ?  Of  his  style,  what  is  ob- 
served? How  does  he  compare  with 
Virgil  ?  To  whom  does  our  author  next 
proceed ;  why ;  and  what  is  said  of 
him  ?  When  was  his  Jerusalem  Deli- 
vered published ;  and  what  is  said  of 
it  ?  What  is  the  subject  of  it ;  and  of 
this  enterprise,  what  is  remarked? 
What  forms  an  interesting  contrast  ? 
What  does  the  subject  not  produce ; 
but  what  does  it  exhibit  ?  What  is  ob- 
served of  the  share  which  religion  pos- 
sesses in  the  enterprise ;  and  of  the  ac- 
tion, also,  what  is  remarked  ?  In  the 
conduct  of  the  story,  what  has  Tasso 
shown  ?  How  is  this  illustratea  ?  At 
the  same  time,  of  the  whole  work, 
what  is  observed  ?  What  remark  fol- 
lows ?  What  is  remarked  of  the  epi- 
sodes? With  what  is  the  poem  enliven- 
ed ;  and  of  them,  what  is  remarked  ? 
How  is  this  remark  illustrated?    Oi 


LECT    XLIV.] 


QUESTIONS. 


506 


Tasso,  in  the  characteristical  part, 
what  is  observed  ?  What  is  said  of  his 
machinery  ?  When  is  it  noble ;  and 
what  instances  are  given  ?  But  what 
act  too  great  a  part  throughout  the 
poem  ;  and  form  what  ?  What  scenes, 
must  it  be  confessed,  carry  the  mar- 
vellous to  a  degree  of  extravagance  ? 
In  general,  to  what  is  Tasso  most  lia- 
ble to  censure  ?  What  illustration  of 
this  remark  follows  ?  What  apology, 
however,  may  be  offered  for  him  ?  Be- 
tween them,  what  difference  is  there? 
With  what  beauties  does  Tasso  re- 
markably abound  ?  Of  both  his  de- 
scriptions and  his  style,  what  is  obser- 
ved? How  is  this  remark  illustrated? 
What  is  said  of  both  cf  the  descriptions 
which  have  been  mentioned  ?  Of  his 
battles,  what  is  remarked  ?  In  what  is 
Tasso  not  so  happy  as  in  his  descrip- 
tions ;  and  by  what  is  it  that  he  inte- 
rests us  ?  In  what  is  he  far  inferior  to 
Virgil ;  and  when  is  he  apt  to  become 
artificial  and  strained  ?  What  censure 
has  been  carried  too  far?  What  re- 
marks follow ;  and  what  would  fully 
clear  it  of  all  such  exceptionable  passa- 
ges ?  What  critics  have  decried  Tas- 
so ?  But  what  would  one  be  apt  to  ima- 
gine ;  and  why  ?  In  what  may  Tasso 
be  held  inferior  to  Homer,  in  what  to 
Virgil,  and  in  what  to  Milton?  In  what 
is  he  inferior  to  no  poet;  the  three  just 
mentioned  excepted?  Why  cannot 
Ariosto,  with  propriety,  be  classed 
among  epic  writers  ?  What  does  Arios- 
to appear  to  have  despised;  and  to 
have  chosen  what?  At  the  same  time, 
what  does  his  poem  contain  ?  Of  Ari- 
osto. and  of  his  Orlando  Furioso,  what 
is  farther  observed  ? 

As  the  Italians  make  their  boast  of 
Tasso,  of  whom  do  the  Portuguese 
boast,  and  of  him,  what  is  observed? 
What  is  the  subject  of  it?  Of  the  enter- 
prise, what  is  remarked ;  and  why  was 
it  interesting  to  Camoen's  countrymen? 
How  does  the  poem  open ;  and  what 
follows  ?  Of  this  recital,  what  is  obser- 
ved ;  and  what  fill  up  the  rest  of  the 
poem  ?  From  what  does  it  appear  that 
the  whole  work  is  conducted  according 
to  the  epic  plan?  Towards  what  is 
there  no  attempt;  and  who  is  the  hero  ? 
What  is  observed  of  the  machinery  of 
the  Lusiad  ;  and  how.does  this  appear  ? 
What  was  one  great  scope  of  the  expe- 
dition ;  and  what  fohows  ?  What  salvo 
does  the  author  yive  towards  the  end 


of  the  work,  for  his  whole  mythology  ? 
What  fine  machinery,  however,  of  z 
different  kind,  is  there  in  the  Lusiad  ? 
But  what  is  the  noblest  conceptions  of 
this  sort  ?  What  does  he  tell  him  ?  OS 
this  piece  of  machinery,  what  is  re- 
marked ?  In  reviewing  the  epic  poets, 
to  make  no  mention  of  whom,  were  un- 
just ?  Why  is  his  work  entitled  to  be 
held  a  poem  ?  What  is  said  of  the  plan 
of  it?  Into  what  has  the  author 
entered  with  much  felicity;  and  in 
this,  how  does  he  compare  with  other 
modern  poets  ?  Of  his  descriptions, 
what  is  observed  ?  Which  is  the  best 
executed  part  of  the  work ;  and  why  ? 
Of  the  last  twelve  books,  and  of  the 
warlike  adventures,  what  is  remark- 
ed 1  From  what  does  the  chief  objec- 
tion against  this  work  being  classed 
with  epic  poems,  arise ;  and  of  these, 
what,  is  observed  ?  What  have  several 
of  the  epic  poets  described  ;  and  in  the 
prospects  they  have  given  us  of  the 
invisible  world,  what  may  we  observe  ? 
Illustrate  this  remark  from  Homer ; 
from  Virgil ;  and  from  Fenelon  ?  What 
has  Voltaire,  in  his  Henriade,  given 
us  ?  As  in  every  performance  of  that 
celebrated  writer,  we  may  expect  to 
find  marks  of  genius,  what  follows  ? 
Several  of  what,  particularly,  are  both 
new  and  happy  ?  What  remarks  fol- 
low ?  Why  is  French  versification  illy 
adapted  to  epic  poetry  ?  Hence,  what 
follows  ?  What  does  it  not  do  ?  What 
is  the  subject  of  the  poem  ?  What  does 
the  action  properly  include ;  and  of  it, 
what  is  observed  ?  But  to  what  defects 
is  it  liable  ;  and  how  is  this  illustrated  ? 
To  remedy  this  last  defect,  what  has 
Voltaire  done,  and  what  instance  is 
given?  What  remark  follows;  and 
why  was  this  episode  contrived  1  But 
why  was  the  imitation  injudicious? 
What  are  the  general  remarks  on  the. 
machinery  employed  by  Voltaire  ?  In 
justice,  however,  to  our  author,  what 
must  be  observed  ?  Illustrate  this  re- 
mark. What  is  one  reason  why  this 
poem  makes  a  faint  impression?  Ot 
the  strain  of  sentiment  which  runs 
through  it,  what  is  observed?  How 
does  religion  appear,  and  what  spirit 
does  the  author  breathe?  What  has 
Milton  done  ?  How  it  this  illustrated  ? 
Of  his  subject,  what  is  remarked ;  but 
what  follows?  What  may  be  Ques- 
tioned ;  and  why  ?  But  ine  subject 
which  he  has  chosen  suited  what ;  g»d 


50G  b 


QUESTIONS 


[lect.  xlv. 


in  the  conduct  of  it,  what  has  he 
shown  ?  What  is  a  matter  of  astonish- 
ment; and  what  remarks  follow? 
What  did  not  the  nature  of  the  subject 
admit  ?  Repeat  the  description  of  Sa- 
tan. Of  Belzebub,  Moloch,  and  Belial, 
what  is  remarked ;  and,  what  is  also 
said  of  the  good  angels?  In  what, 
however,  has  he  been  unsuccessful  ? 
With  regard  to  his  human  characters, 
what  is  observed  ?  Where  is  Adam  too 
knowing,  and  too  refined  for  his  situa- 
tion ;  but  what  is  said  of  Eve  ?  Of  Mil- 
ton's sublimity,  what  is  remarked  ?  Al- 
most the  whole  of  what  books  are  con- 
tinued instances  of  the  sublime ;  and 
what  examples  are  given  ?  What  is 
said  of  the  sixth  book  ?  How  does  Mil 
ton's  sublimity  compare  with  that  of 
Homer?  What  other  excellences  does 
Milton  possess  ?  How  is  this  remark  il- 
lustrated ?  Where  is  there  a  falling  off; 
and  with  what  does  Milton's  genius 
seem  to  decline?  But  what  beauties  of 
the  tragic  kind  are  there  in  the  con- 


cluding books?  Of  the  last  episode, 
what  is  observed?  What  is  the  charac- 
ter of  his  style  j  and  of  his  blank  verse 
what  is  remarked  ?  Repeat  the  closing 
paragraph. 


ANALYSIS. 


1.  Lucan's  Pharsalia. 

a.  The  subject  defective. 

b.  The  characters  spiritedly  drawn. 

c.  The  narration  considered. 

2.  Tasso's  Jerusalem  Delivered. 

a.  The  subject — the  narration. 

b.  The  characters. 

a.  The  machinery. 

3.  Ariosto's  Orlando  Furioso. 

4.  Camoen's  Lusiad. 

a.  The  subj  :ct — the  narration. 

b.  The  machinery  considered. 

5.  Fenelon's  Tclemachus. 

a.  The  character  of  the  work. 

6.  Voltaire's  Hcnriade. 

a.  The  subject — the  narration. 
B.  The  machinery. 

7.  Milton's  Paradise  Lost. 

a.  The  subject — the  characters. 

b.  The  sublimity — the  tenderness. 

c.  The  style  and  versification. 


LECTURE    XjLV. 


DRAMATIC   POETRY.— TRAGEDY. 

Dramatic  poetry  has,  among  all  civilized  nations,  been  considered 
as  a  rational  and  useful  entertainment,  and  judged  worthy  of  careful 
and  serious  discussion.  According  as  it  is  employed  upon  the  light 
and  the  gay,  or  upon  the  grave  and  affecting  incidents  of  human  life, 
it  divides  itself  into  the  two  forms,  of  comedy  or  tragedy.  But  as 
great  and  serious  objects  command  more  attention  than  little  and 
ludicrous  ones  ;  as  the  fall  of  a  hero  interests  the  public  more  than 
the  marriage  of  a  private  person  ;  tragedy  has  always  been  held  a 
more  dignified  entertainment  than  comedy.  The  one  rests  upon  the 
high  passions,  the  virtues,  crimes,  and  sufferings  of  mankind.  The 
other  on  their  humours,  follies,  and  pleasures.  Terror  and  pity  ar? 
the  great  instruments  of  the  former  ;  ridicule  is  the  sole  instrument 
of  the  latter.  Tragedy  shall,  therefore,  be  the  object  of  our  fullest 
discussion.  This  and  the  following  lecture  shall  be  employed  on  it ; 
after  which,  I  shall  treat  of  what  is  peculiar  to  comedy. 

Tragedy,  considered  as  an  exhibition  of  the  characters  and  beha- 
viour of  men,  in  some  of  the  most  trying  and  critical  situations  of 
life,  is  a  noble  idea  of  poetry.  It  is  a  direct  imitation  of  human 
manners  and  actions.  For  it  does  not,  like  the  epic  poem,  exhibit 
characters  by  the  narration  and  description  of  the  poet ;  but  the 
poet  disappears ;  and  the  personages  themselves  are  set  before  us, 
acting  and  speaking  what  is  suitable  to  their  characters.  Hence, 
no  kind  of  writing  is  so  great  a  trial  of  the  author's  profound  know- 
ledge of  the  human  heart.  No  kind  of  writing  has  so  much  power, 
when  happily  executed,  to  raise  the  strongest  emotions.     Tt  is,  or 


I.ECT.  xlv.J  TRAGEDY.  507 

ought  to  be,  a  mirror  in  which  we  behold  ourselves,  and  the  evils 
to  which  we  are  exposed ;  a  faithful  copy  of  the  human  passions,  with 
all  their  direful  effects,  when  they  are  suffered  to  become  extrava- 
gant. 

As  tragedy  is  a  high  and  distinguished  species  of  composition,  so 
also,  in  its  general  strain  and  spirit,  it  is  favourable  to  virtue.  Such 
power  hath  virtue  happily  over  the  human  mind,  by  the  wise  and 
gracious  constitution  of  our  nature,  that  as  admiration  cannot  be 
raised  in  epic  poetry,  so  neither  in  tragic  poetry  can  our  passions  be 
strongly  moved,  unless  virtuous  emotions  be  awakened  within  us. 
Every  poet  finds,  that  it  is  impossible  to  interest  us  in  any  character, 
without  representing  that  character  as  worthy  and  honourable, 
though  it  may  not  be  perfect;  and  that  the  great  secret  for  raising 
indignation,  is  to  paint  the  person  who  is  to  be  the  object  of  it, 
in  the  colours  of  vice  and  depravity.  He  may,  indeed,  nay,  he 
must,  represent  the  virtuous  as  sometimes  unfortunate,  because  this 
is  often  the  case  in  real  life  ;  but  he  will  always  study  to  engage  our 
hearts  in  their  behalf;  and  though  they  may  be  described  as  un- 
prosperous,  yet  there  is  no  instance  of  a  tragic  poet  representing 
vice  as  fully  triumphant,  and  happy,  in  the  catastrophe  of  the  piece. 
Even  when  bad  men  succeed  in  their  designs,  punishment  is  made 
always  to  attend  them  ;  and  misery  of  one  kind  or  other  is  shown 
to  be  unavoidably  connected  with  guilt.  Love  and  admiration  of 
virtuous  characters,  compassion  for  the  injured  and  the  distressed, 
and  indignation  against  the  authors  of  their  sufferings,  are  the  senti- 
ments most  generally  excited  by  tragedy.  And,  therefore,  though 
dramatic  writers  may  sometimes,  like  other  writers,  be  guilty  of  im- 
proprieties, though  they  may  fail  of  placing  virtue  precisely  in  the 
due  point  of  light,  yet  no  reasonable  person  can  deny  tragedy  to  be 
a  moral  species  of  composition.  Taking  tragedies  complexly,  I  am 
fully  persuaded,  that  the  impressions  left  by  them  upon  the  mind 
are,  on  the  whole,  favourable  to  virtue  and  good  dispositions.  And, 
therefore,  the  zeal  which  some  pious  men  have  shown  against  the 
entertainments  of  the  theatre,  must  rest  only  upon  the  abuse  of  co- 
medy; which,  indeed,  has  frequently  been  so  great  as  to  justify 
very  severe  censures  against  it. 

The  account  which  Aristotle  gives  of  the  design  of  tragedy  is, 
that  it  is  intended  to  purge  our  passions  by  means  of  pity  and  ter- 
ror. This  is  somewhat  obscure.  Various  senses  have  been  put 
upon  his  words,  and  much  altercation  has  followed  among  his  com- 
mentators. Without  entering  into  any  controversy  upon  this  head, 
the  intention  of  tragedy  may,  I  think,  be  more  shortly  and  clearly  defi- 
ned, to  improve  our  virtuous  sensibility.  If  an  author  interests  us  in 
behalf  of  virtue,  forms  us  to  compassion  for  the  distressed,  inspires 
us  with  proper  sentiments  on  beholding  the  vicissitudes  of  life,  and, 
by  means  of  the  concern  which  he  raises  for  the  misfortunes  of 
others,  leads  us  to  guard  against  errors  in  our  own  conduct,  he  ac- 
complishes all  the  moral  purposes  of  tragedy. 

In  order  to  this  end,  the  first  requisite  is,  that  he  choose  some 
moving  and   interesting  story,  and  that  he  conduct  it  in  a  natural 


503  TRAGEDY  [lect.  xlv 

and  probable  manner.  For  we  must  observe,  that  the  natural  and 
the  probable  must  always  be  the  basis  of  tragedy  ;  and  are  infinitely 
more  important  there,  than  in  epic  poetry.  The  object  of  the  epic 
poet,  is  to  excite  our  admiration  by  the  recital  of  heroic  adventures  ; 
and  a  much  slighter  degree  of  probability  is  required  when  admira- 
tion is  concerned,  than  when  the  tender  passions  are  intended  to  be 
moved.  The  imagination,  in  the  former  case,  is  exalted,  accommo- 
dates itself  to  the  poet's  idea,  and  can  admit  the  marvellous  with- 
out being  shocked.  But  tragedy  demands  a  stricter  imitation  ol 
the  life  and  actions  of  men.  For  the  end  which  it  pursues  is  not  so 
much  to  elevate  the  imagination,  as  to  affect  the  heart;  and  the  heart 
always  judges  more  nicely  than  the  imagination,  of  what  is  probable. 
Passion  can  be  raised,  only  by  making  the  impressions  of  nature  and 
of  truth  upon  the  mind.  By  introducing,  therefore,  any  wild  or  ro- 
mantic circumstances  into  his  story,  the  poet  never  fails  to  check 
passion  in  its  growth,  and,  of  course,  disappoints  the  main  effect  of 
tragedy. 

This  principle,  which  is  founded  on  the  clearest  reason,  excludes 
from  tragedy  all  machinery,  or  fabulous  intervention  of  the  gods. 
Ghosts  have,  indeed,  maintained  their  place ;  as  being  strongly  found- 
ed on  popular  belief,  and  peculiarly  suited  to  heighten  the  terror  of 
tragic  scenes.  But  all  unravellings  of  the  plot  which  turn  upon  the 
interposition  of  deities,  such  as  Euripides  employs  in  several  of  his 
plays,  are  much  to  be  condemned ;  both  as  clumsy  and  inartificial,  and 
as  destroying  the  probability  of  the  story.  This  mixture  of  machinery 
with  the  tragic  action  is,  undoubtedly,  a  blemish  in  the  ancient 
theatre. 

In  order  to  promote  that  impression  of  probability  which  is  so 
necessary  to  the  success  of  tragedy,  some  critics  have  required, 
that  the  subject  should  never  be  a  pure  fiction  invented  by  the 
poet,  but  built  on  real  history  or  known  facts.  Such,  indeed,  were 
generally,  if  not  always,  the  subjects  of  the  Greek  tragedians.  But 
I  cannot  hold  this  to  be  a  matter  of  any  great  consequence.  It  is 
proved  by  experience,  that  a  fictitious  tale,  if  properly  conducted, 
will  melt  the  heart  as  much  as  any  real  history.  In  order  to  our 
being  moved,  it  is  not  necessary,  that  the  events  related  did  actually 
happen,  provided  they  be  such  as  might  easily  have  happened  in 
the  ordinary  course  of  nature.  Even  when  tragedy  borrows  its  mate- 
rials from  history,  it  mixes  many  a  fictitious  circumstance.  The  great- 
est part  of  readers  neither  know,  nor  inquire,  what  is  fabulous  or  what 
is  historical,  in  the  subject.  They  attend  only  to  whatis  probable,  and 
are  touched  by  events  which  resemble  nature.  Accordingly,  some 
of  the  most  pathetic  tragedies  an  entirely  fictitious  in  the  subject; 
such  as  Voltaire's  Zaire  and  Alz'ne,  the  Orphan,  Douglas,  the  Fair 
Penitent,  and  several  others. 

Whether  the  subject  be  of  the  real  or  feigned  kind,  that  on  wmch 
most  depends  for  rendering  the  incidents  in  a  tragedy  probable,  and 
by  means  of  their  probability  affecting,  is  the  conduct  or  manage- 
ment of  the  story,  and  the  connexion  of  its  several  parts.  To  re- 
gulate thh  conduct,  critics  have  laid  down  the  famous  rule  of  the 


lect.  xlw]  TRAGEDY.  o,»9 

three  Unities;  the  importance  of  which  it  will  he  necessary  to  discuss. 
But,  in  order  to  do  this  with  more  advantage,  it  will  be  necessary 
that  we  first  look  backwards,  and  trace  the  rise  and  origin  of  tragedy, 
which  will  give  light  to  several  things  relating  to  the  subject. 

Tragedy,  like  other  arts,  was,in  its  beginning,  rude  and  imperfect. 
Among  the  Greeks,  from  whom  our  dramatic  entertainments  are 
derived,  the  origin  of  tragedy  was  no  other  than  the  song  which 
was  wont  to  be  sung  at  the  festival  of  Bacchus.  A  goat  was  the 
sacrifice  offered  to  that  god;  after  the  sacrifice,  the  priests,  with  the 
company  that  joined  them,  sung  hymns  in  honour  of  Bacchus;  and 
from  the  name  of  the  victim,  fgayos,  a  goat,joined  with  «&?,  a  song, 
undoubtedly  arose  the  word  tragedy. 

These  hymns,  or  lyric  poems,  were  sung  sometimes  by  the  whole 
company,  sometimes  by  separate  bands,  answering  alternately  to 
each  other;  making  what  we  call  a  chorus,  with  its  strophes  and  an- 
tistrophes.  In  order  to  throw  some  variety  into  this  entertainment, 
and  to  relieve  the  singers,  it  was  thought  proper  to  introduce  a 
person  who,  between  the  songs,  should  make  recitation  in  verse. 
Thespis,  who  lived  about  536  years  before  the  Christian  era,  made 
this  innovation;  and,  as  it  was  relished,  iEschylus,  who  came  50 
years  after  him,  and  who  is  properly  the  father  of  tragedy,  went 
a  step  farther,  introduced  a  dialogue  between  two  persons,  or  ac- 
tors, in  which  he  contrived  to  interweave  someinterestingstor}  ,  and 
brought  his  actors  on  a  stage,  adorned  with  proper  scenery  and  de- 
corations. All  that  these  actors  recited,  was  called  episode,  or  addi- 
tional song;  and  the  songs  of  the  chorus  were  made  to  relate  no 
longer  to  Bacchus,  their  original  subject,  but  to  the  story  in  which 
the  actors  were  concerned.  This  began  to  give  the  drama  a  regulai 
form,  which  was  soon  after  brought  to  perfection,  by  Sophocles  and 
Euripides.  It  is  remarkable  in  how  short  a  space  of  time  tragedy 
grew  up  among  the  Greeks,  from  the  rudest  beginnings  to  its  most 
perfect  state.  For  Sophocles,  the  greatest  and  most  correct  of  all 
the  tragic  poets,  flourished  only  22  years  after  .ZEschylus,  and  was 
little  more  than  70  years  posterior  to  Thespis. 

From  the  account  which  I  have  now  given,  it  appears,  that  the 
-chorus  was  the  basis  or  foundation  of  the  ancient  tragedy.  It  was 
not  an  ornament  added  to  it;  or  a  contrivance  designed  to  render  it 
more  perfect;  but,  in  truth,  the  dramatic  dialogue  was  an  addition 
to  the  chorus,  which  was  the  original  entertainment.  In  process  of 
time,  the  choras,  from  being  the  principal,  became  only  the  acces- 
sory in  tragedy;  till  at  last,  in  modern  tragedy,  it  has  disappear 
ed  altogether;  which  forms  the  chief  distinction  between  the  ancient 
and  the  modern  stage. 

This  has  given  rise  to  a  question,  much  agitated  between  the  par 
tisans  of  the  ancients  and  the  moderns,  whether  the  drama  has 
gained,  or  has  suffered,  by  the  abolition  of  the  chorus.  It  must 
be  admitted,  that  the  chorus  tended  to  render  tragedy  both  more 
magnificent,  and  more  instructive  and  moral.  It  was  always  the 
most  sublime  and  poetical  part  of  the  work ;  and  being  carried  on 


510  TRAGEDY.  [lect.  xlv 

by  singing,  and  accompanied  with  music,  it  must,  no  doubt,  have 
diversified  the  entertainment  greatly,  and  added  to  its  splendour. 
The  chorus,  at  the  same  time,  conveyed  constant  lessons  of  virtue. 
It  was  composed  of  such  persons  as  might  most  naturally  be  supposed 
present  on  the  occasion;  inhabitants  of  the  place  where  the  scene  was 
laid,  often  the  companions  of  some  of  the  principal  actors,  and, 
therefore,  in  some  degree,  interested  in  the  issue  of  the  action. 
This  company,  which,  in  the  days  of  Sophocles,  was  restricted  to 
the  number  of  fifteen  persons,  was  constantly  on  the  stage  during  the 
whole  performance,  mingled  in  discourse  with  the  actors,  entered 
into  their  concerns,  suggested  counsel  and  advice  to  them,  moral- 
ized on  all  the  incidents  that  were  going  on,  and,  during  the  inter- 
vals of  the  action,  sung  their  odes,  or  songs,  in  which  they  address- 
ed the  gods,  prayed  for  success  to  the  virtuous,  lamented  their  mis- 
fortunes, and  delivered  many  religious  and  moral  sentiments.* 

But,  notwithstanding  the  advantages  which  were  obtained  bv 
means  of  the  chorus,  the  inconveniences, on  the  other  side,are  so 
great,as  to  render  the  modern  practice  of  excluding  the  chorus,  fai 
more  eligible  upon  the  whole.  For  if  a  natural  and  probable  imi- 
tation of  human  actions  be  the  chief  end  of  the  drama,  no  other 
persons  ought  to  be  brought  on  the  stage,  than  those  who  are  neces- 
sary to  the  dramatic  action.  The  introduction  of  an  adventitious 
company  of  persons,  who  have  but  a  slight  concern  in  the  business 
of  the  play,  is  unnatural  in  itself,  embarrassing  to  the  poet,  and, 
though  it  may  render  the  spectacle  splendid,  tends,  undoubtedly,  to 
render  it  more  cold  and  uninteresting,  because  more  unlike  a  reaJ 
transaction.  The  mixture  of  music,  or  song,  on  the  part  of  the  cho- 
rus, with  the  dialogue  carried  on  by  the  actors,  is  another  unnatural 
circumstance,  removing  the  representation  still  farther  from  the  re- 
semblance of  life.  The  poet,  besides,  is  subjected  to  innumerable 
difficulties,  in  so  contriving  his  plan,  that  the  presence  of  the  cho- 

*  The  office  of  the  chorus  is  thus  described  by  Horace  : 
Actoris  partes  chorus,  officiumque  virile 
Defendat :  neu  quid  medios  intercinat  actus, 
Quod  non  proposito  conducat,  et  hsereat  apte. 
Hie  bonis  faveatque  et  consilietur  amice, 
Et  regat  iratos,  et  amet  pacare  tumentes  : 
Hie  dapes  laudet  mensre  brevis  ;  ille  sakibrcns 
Justitiam,  legesque,  et  apertis  otia  portis  : 
Ille  tegat  commissa,  deosque  precetur  et  oret, 
Ut  redeat  miseris,  abeat  fortuna  superbis.  Ds  Art.  PoBf .    $0 

The  chorus  must  support  ar>  actor's  part, 

Defend  the  virtuous,  and  advise  with  art; 

Govern  the  choleric,  and  the  proud  appease, 

And  the  short  feasts  of  frugal  tables  praise  ; 

Applaud  the  justice  of  well-governed  states, 

And  peace  triumphant  with  her  open  gates. 

Intrusted  secrets  let  them  ne'er  betray, 

But  to  the  righteous  gods  with  ardour  pray, 

That  fortune,  with  returning  smiles,  may  bless 

Afflicted  worth,  and  impious  pride  depress  ; 

Yet  let  their  songs  with  apt  coherence  join, 

Promote  the  plot,  and  aid  the  just  design.  Frabci* 


lect.  xlv.]  TRAGEDY.  511 

rus,  during  all  the  incidents  of  the  play,  shall  consist  witu  "ny  pro- 
Dability.  The  scene  must  be  constantly,  and  often  absurdly,  laid 
in  some  public  place,  that  the  chorus  may  be  supposed  to  have  free 
access  to  it.  To  many  things  that  ought  to  be  transacted  in  private, 
the  chorus  must  ever  be  witnesses ;  they  must  be  the  confederates  of 
both  parties,  who  come  successively  upon  the  stage,  and  who  are, 
perhaps,  conspiring  against  each  other.  In  short,  the  manage- 
ment of  a  chorus  is  an  unnatural  confinement  to  a  poet;  it  requires 
too  great  a  sacrifice  of  probability  in  the  conduct  of  the  action; 
it  has  too  much  the  air  of  a  theatrical  decoration,  to  be  consistent 
with  that  appearance  of  reality,  which  a  poet  must  ever  preset-,  ?, 
in  order  to  move  our  passions.  The  origin  of  tragedy,  among  the 
Greeks,  we  have  seen,  was  a  choral  song,  or  hymn,  to  the  gods. 
There  is  no  wonder,  therefore,  that  on  the  Greek  stage  it  so  long 
maintained  possession.  But  it  may  confidently,  I  think,  be  assert- 
ed, that  if,  instead  of  the  dramatic  dialogue  having  been  superadded 
to  the  chorus,  the  dialogue  itself  had  been  the  first  invention,  the 
chorus  would,  in  that  case,  never  have  been  thought  of. 

One  use,  I  am  of  opinion,  might  still  be  made  of  the  ancient 
chorus,  and  would  be  a  considerable  improvement  of  the  modern 
theatre.  Instead  of  that  unmeaning,  and  often  improperly  cho- 
sen music,  with  which  the  audience  is  entertained  in  the  intervals 
between  the  acts,  a  chorus  might  be  introduced,  whose  music 
and  songs,  though  forming  no  part  of  the  play,  should  have  a  rela- 
tion to  the  incidents  of  the  preceding  act,  and  to  the  dispositions 
which  those  incidents  are  presumed  to  have  awakened  in  the  spec 
tators.  By  this  means  the  tone  of  passion  would  be  kept  up  with- 
out interruption;  and  all  the  good  effects  of  the  ancient  chorus 
might  be  preserved,  for  inspiring  proper  sentiments,  and  for  in- 
creasing the  morality  of  the  performance,  without  those  inconve- 
niences which  arose  from  the  chorus  forming  a  constituent  part  of 
the  play,  and  mingling  unseasonably,  and  unnaturally,  with  the 
personages  of  the  drama. 

j,  After  the  view  which  we  have  taken  of  the  rise  of  tragedy,  and 
of  the  nature  of  the  ancient  chorus,  with  the  advantages  and  incon- 
veniences attending  it,  our  way  is  cleared  for  examining,  with  more 
advantage,  the  three  unities  of  action,  place,  and  time,  which  have 
generally  been  considered  as  essential  to  the  proper  conduct  of  the 
dramatic  fable. 

Of  these  three,  the  first,  unity  of  action,  is,  beyond  doubt,  far 
the  most  important.  In  treating  of  epic  poetry,  I  have  already 
explained  the  nature  of  it;  as  consisting  in  a  relation  which  all  the 
incidents  introduced  bear  to  some  design  or  effect,  so  as  to  combine 
naturally  into  one  whole.  This  unity  of  subject  is  still  more  essen- 
tial to  tragedy,  than  it  is  to  epic  poetry.  For  a  multiplicity  of 
plots,  or  actions,  crowded  into  so  short  a  space  as  tragedy  allows 
must,  of  necessity,  distract  the  attention,  and  prevent  passion  from 
rising  to  any  height.  Nothing,  therefore,  is  worse  conduct  in  a 
tragic  poet,  than  to  carry  on  two  independent  actions  in  the  same 
play ;  the  effect  of  which  is,  that  the  mind  being  suspended  and 


512  TRAGEDY.  [lect.  xlv. 

divided  between  them,  cannot  give  itself  up  entirely  either  to  the 
one  or  the  other.  There  may,  indeed,  be  under-plots  ;  that  is,  the 
persons  introduced  may  have  different  pursuits  and  designs  ;  but  the 
poet's  art  must  be  shown  in  managing  these  so  as  to  render  them 
subservient  to  the  main  action.  They  ought  to  be  connected  with 
the  catastrophe  of  the  play,  and  to  conspire  in  bringing  it  forward. 
If  there  be  any  intrigue  which  stands  separate  and  independent,  and 
which  may  be  left  out  without  affecting  the  unravelling  of  the  plot, 
we  may  always  conclude  this  to  be  a  faulty  violation  of  unity. 
Such  episodes  are  not  permitted  here,  as  in  epic  poetry. 

We  have  a  clear  example  of  this  defect  in  Mr.  Addison's  Cato. 
The  subject  of  this  tragedy  is,  the  death  of  Cato  :  and  a  very  noble 
personage  Cato  is,  and  supported  by  the  author  with  much  dignity. 
But  all  the  love  scenes  in  the  play,  the  passion  of  Cato's  two  sons 
for  Lucia,  and  that  of  Juba  for  Cato's  daughter,  are  mere  episodes  ; 
have  no  connexion  with  the  principal  action,  and  no  effect  upon  it. 
The  author  thought  his  subject  too  barren  in  incidents,  and  in  order 
to  diversify  it,  he  has  given  us,  as  it  were,  by  the  by,  a  history  of 
the  amours  that  were  going  on  in  Cato's  family;  by  which  he  hath 
both  broken  the  unity  of  his  subject,  and  formed  a  very  unseason- 
able junction  of  gallantry,  with  the  high  sentiments  and  public 
spirited  passions  which  predominate  in  other  parts,  and  which  the 
play  was  chiefly  designed  to  exhibit. 

We  must  take  care  not  to  confound  the  unity  of  the  action  with 
the  simplicity  of  the  plot.  Unity  and  simplicity  import  different 
things  in  dramatic  composition.  The  plot  is  said  to  be  simple, 
when  a  small  number  of  incidents  are  introduced  into  it.  But  it 
may  be  implex,  as  the  critics  term  it,  that  is,  it  may  include  a  con- 
siderable number  of  persons  and  events,  and  yet  not  be  deficient  in 
unity  ;  provided  all  the  incidents  be  made  to  tend  towards  the  prin- 
cipal object  of  the  play,  and  be  properly  connected  with  it.  All 
the  Greek  tragedies  not  only  maintain  unity  in  the  action,  but  are 
remarkably  simple  in  the  plot;  to  such  a  degree,  indeed,  as  some- 
times to  appear  to  us  too  naked,  and  destitute  of  interesting  events. 
In  the  ffidipus  Coloneus,  for  instance,  of  Sophocles,  the  whole  sub- 
ject is  no  more  than  this  :  CEdipus,  blind  and  miserable,  wanders 
to  Athens,  and  wishes  to  die  there  :  Creon,  and  his  son  Polynices, 
arrive  at  the  same  time,  and  endeavour,  separately,  to  persuade  the 
old  man  to  return  to  Thebes,  each  with  a  view  to  his  own  interest: 
he  will  not  go  :  Theseus,  the  king  of  Athens,  protects  him  ;  and 
.  the  play  ends  with  his  death.  In  the  Philoctetes  of  the  same  author, 
the  plot,  or  fable,  is  nothing  more  than  Ulysses,  and  the  son  of 
Achilles,  studying  to  persuade  the  diseased  Philoctetes  to  leave  his 
uninhabited  island,  and  go  with  them  to  Troy;  which  he  refuses  t 
do,  till  Hercules,  whose  arrows  he  possessed,  descends  from  hea- 
ven and  commands  him.  Yet  these  simple,  and  seemingly  barren 
subjects,  are  wrought  up  with  so  much  art  by  Sophocles,  as  to  be- 
come very  tender  and  affecting. 

Among  the  moderns,  n.  .ch  greater  variety  of  events  has  been 
admitted  into  tragedy.     It  has  become  more  the  theatre  of  passion 


lect.  xlv.]  TRAGEDY.  513 

than  it  was  among  the  ancients.  A  greater  display  of  characters  i? 
attempted;  more  intrigue  and  action  are  carried  on;  our  curiosity 
is  more  awakened,  and  more  interesting  situations  arise.  This  varie 
ty  is,  upon  the  whole,  an  improvement  on  tragedy :  it  renders  the 
entertainment  both  more  animated  and  more  instructive;  and  when 
kept  within  due  bounds,  may  be  perfectly  consistent  with  unity  of 
subject.  But  the  poet  must,  at  the  same  time,  beware  of  not  devia- 
ting too  far  from  simplicity,  in  the  construction  of  his  fable.  For 
if  he  overcharges  it  with  action  and  intrigue,  it  becomes  perplexed 
and  embarrassed;  and,  by  consequence,  loses  much  of  Us  effect. 
Congreve's  Mourning  Bride,  a  tragedy,  otherwise  far  from  being 
void  of  merit,  fails  in  this  respect;  and  may  be  given  as  an  instance 
of  one  standing  in  perfect  opposition  to  the  simplicity  of  the  ancient 
plots.  The  incidents  succeed  one  another  too  rapidly.  The  play 
is  too  full  of  business.  It  is  difficult  for  the  mind  to  follow  and  com- 
prehend the  whole  series  of  events;  and,  what  is  the  greatest  fault 
of  all,  the  catastrophe,  which  ought  always  to  be  plain  and  simple, 
is  brought  about  in  a  manner  too  artificial  and  intricate. 

Unity  of  action  must  not  only  be  studied  in  the  general  construc- 
tion of  the  fable  or  plot,  but  must  regulate  the  several  acts  and  scenes, 
into  which  the  play  is  divided. 

The  division  of  every  play  into  five  acts,  has  no  other  foundation 
than  common  practice,  and  the  authority  of  Horace  : 

Neve  minor,  neu  sit  quinto  productior  actu 

Fabula.* De  Art.  Poet.  v.  189. 

It  is  a  division  purely  arbitrary.  There  is  nothing  in  the  nature  of 
the  composition  which  fixes  this  number  rather  than  any  other;  and 
it  had  been  much  better  if  no  such  number  had  been  ascertained,  but 
every  play  had  been  allowed  to  divide  itself  into  as  many  parts,  or 
intervals,  as  the  subject  naturally  pointed  out.  On  the  Greek  stage, 
whatever  may  have  been  the  case  on  the  Roman,  the  division  by  acts 
was  totally  unknown.  The  word  act,  never  once  occurs  in  Aristo- 
tle's Poetics,  in  which  he  defines  exactly  every  part  of  the  drama, 
^ind  divides  it  into  the  beginning,  the  middle,  and  the  end;  or,  in 
his  own  words,  into  the  prologue,  the  episode,  and  the  exode.  The 
Greek  tragedy  was,  indeed,  one  continued  representation,  from  be- 
ginning to  end.  The  stage  was  never  empty,  nor  the  curtain  let  fall. 
But  at  certain  intervals,  when  the  actors  retired,  the  chorus  continu- 
ed and  sung.  Neither  do  these  songs  of  the  chorus  divide  the  Greek 
tragedies  into  five  portions,  similar  to  our  acts;  though  some  of  the 
commentators  have  endeavoured  to  force  them  into  this  office.  But 
it  is  plain,  that  the  intervals  at  which  the  chorus  sung,  are  extremely 
unequal  and  irregular,  suited  to  the  occasion  and  the  subject;  and 
would  divide  the  play  sometimes  into  three,  sometimes  into  seven 
or  eight  acts.t 

As  practice  has  now  established  a  different  plan  on  the  modern 

*  If  you  would  have  your  play  deserve  success, 

Give  it  five  acts  complete,  nor  more,  nor  less.  Francis 

t  See  the  dissertation  prefixed   o  Franklin's  translation  of  Sophocles. 

35 


514  TRAGEDY.  [lect.  xlv 

stage,  has  divided  every  play  into  five  acts,  and  made  a  total  pause 
in  the  representation  at  the  end  of  each  act,  the  poet  must  be  care- 
uil  that  this  pause  shall  fall  in  a  proper  place;  where  there  is  a  natu- 
ral pause  in  the  action ;  and  where,  if  the  imagination  has  any  thing 
to  supply,  that  is  not  represented  on  the  stage,  it  may  be  supposed 
to  have  been  transacted  during  the  interval. 

The  first  act  ought  to  contain  a  clear  exposition  of  the  subject.  1 
ought  to  be  so  managed  as  to  awaken  the  curiosity  of  the  spectators 
and,  at  the  same  time,  to  furnish  them  with  materials  for  understand- 
ing the  sequel.  It  should  make  them  acquainted  with  the  personages 
who  are  to  appear,  with  their  several  views  and  interests,  and  with  the 
situation  of  affairs  at  the  time  when  the  play  commences.  A  striking 
introduction,  such  as  the  first  speech  of  Almeria,  in  the  Mourning 
Bride,  and  that  of  Lady  Randolph,  in  Douglas,  produces  a  happy 
effect;  but  this  is  what  the  subject  will  not  always  admit.  In  the 
ruder  times  of  dramatic  writing,  the  exposition  of  the  subject  was 
wont  to  be  made  by  a  prologue,  or  by  a  single  aclor  appearing,  and 
giving  full  and  direct  information  to  the  spectators.  Some  of  JEschy- 
lus's  and  Euripides's  plays  are  opened  in  this  manner.  But  such  an 
introduction  is  extremely  inartificial,  and  therefore  is  now  totally 
abolished,  and  thesubject  made  to  open  itself  by  conversation  among 
the  first  actors  who  are  brought  upon  the  stage. 

During  the  course  of  the  drama,  in  the  second,  third,  and  fourth 
acts,  the  plot  should  gradually  thicken.  The  great  object  which  the 
poet  ought  here  to  have  in  view,  is,  by  interesting  us  in  his  story,  to 
keep  our  passions  always  awake.  As  soon  as  he  allows  us  to  lan- 
guish, there  is  no  more  tragic  merit.  He  should,  therefore,  introduce 
no  personages  but  such  as  are  necessary  for  carrying  on  the  action. 
He  should  contrive  to  place  those  whom  he  finds  it  proper  to  introduce, 
in  the  most  interesting  situations.  He  should  have  no  scenes  of  idle 
conversation,  or  mere  declamation.  The  action  of  the  play  ought 
to  be  always  advancing;  and  as  it  advances,  the  suspense,  and  the 
concern  of  the  spectators,  to  be  raised  more  and  more.  This  is  the 
great  excellency  of  Shakspeare,  that  his  scenes  are  full  of  sentiment 
and  action,  never  of  mere  discourse;  whereas,  it  is  often  a  fault  of 
the  best  French  tragedians,  that  they  allow  the  action  to  languish 
for  the  sake  of  a  long  and  artful  dialogue.  Sentiment,  passion,  pity, 
and  terror,  should  reign  throughout  a  tragedy.  Every  thing  should 
be  full  of  movements.  A  useless  incident,  or  an  unnecessary  con- 
versation, weakens  the  interest  which  we  take  in  the  action,  and  ren- 
ders us  cold  and  inattentive. 

The  fifth  act  is  the  seat  of  the  catastrophe,  or  the  unravelling  of 
the  plot,  in  which  we  always  expect  the  art  and  genius  of  the  poet 
to  be  most  fully  displayed.  The  first  rule  concerning  it  is,  that  it 
be  brought  about  by  probable  and  natural  means.  Hence  all  unrav- 
ellings  which  turn  upon  disguised  habits,  rencounters  by  night,  mis- 
Lakes  of  one  person  for  another,  and  other  such  theatrical  and  roman- 
tic circumstances,  are  to  be  condemned  as  faulty.  In  the  uext  place, 
the  catastrophe  ought  always  to  be  simple ;  to  depend  on  few  events, 
and  to  include  but  few  persons.     Passion  never  rises  so  high  when 


lect.  xlv.]  TRAGEDY  515 

it  is  divided  among  many  objects,  as  when  it  is  directed  tow  ards  one, 
or  a  few.  And  it  is  still  more  checked,  if  the  incidents  be  so  com- 
plex and  intricate,  that  the  understanding  is  put  on  the  stretch  to 
trace  them,  when  the  heart  should  be  wholly  delivered  up  to  emotion. 
The  catastrophe  of  the  Mourning  Bride,  as  I  formerly  hinted,  offends 
against  both  these  rules.  In  the  last  place,  the  catastrophe  of  a  tra- 
gedy ought  to  be  the  reign  of  pure  sentiment  and  passion.  In  pro- 
portion as  it  approaches,  every  thing  snould  warm  and  glow.  No 
long  discourses ;  no  cold  reasonings ;  no  parade  of  genius,  in  the  midst 
of  those  solemn  and  awful  events,  that  close  some  of  the  great  reso- 
lutions of  human  fortune.  There,  if  any  where,  the  poet  must  be  sim- 
ple, serious,  pathetic  ;  and  speak  no  language  but  that  of  nature. 

The  ancients  were  fond  of  unravellings,  which  turned  upon  what 
is  called  an  'Anagnorisis,'  or  a  discovery  of  some  person  to  be 
different  from  what  he  was  taken  to  be.  When  such  discoveries  are 
artfully  conducted,  and  produced  in  critical  situations,  they  are  ex- 
tremely striking ;  such  as  that  famous  one  in  Sophocles,  which  makes 
the  whole  subject  of  his  CEdipus  Tyrannus,  and  which  is,  undoubt- 
edly, the  fullest  of  suspense,  agitation,  and  terror,  that  ever  was  ex- 
hibited on  any  stage.  Among  the  moderns,  two  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished Anagnorises,  are  those  contained  in  Voltaire's  Merope, 
and  Mr.  Home's  Douglas;  both  of  which  are  great  masterpieces  of 
the  kind. 

It  is  not  essential  to  the  catastrophe  of  a  tragedy,  that  it  should 
end  unhappily.  In  the  course  of  the  play,  there  may  be  sufficient 
agitation  and  distress,  and  many  tender  emotions  raised  by  the  suf- 
ferings and  dangers  of  the  virtuous,  though  in  the  end,  good  men  are 
rendered  successful.  The  tragic  spirit,  therefore,  does  not  want 
scope  upon  this  system  ;  and,  accordingly,  the  Athalie  of  Racine, 
and  some  of  Voltaire's  finest  plays,  such  as  Alzire,  Merope,  and  tht> 
Orphan  of  China,  with  some  few  English  tragedies  likewise,  have  9 
fortunate  conclusion.  But,  in  general,  the  spirit  of  tragedy,  espe 
cially  of  English  tragedy,  leans  more  to  the  side  of  leaving  the  im 
pression  of  virtuous  sorrow  full  and  strong  upon  the  heart. 

A  cpiestion  intimately  connected  with  this  subject,  anu  which  has 
employed  the  speculations  of  several  philosophical  critics,  naturally 
occurs  here:  how  it  comes  to  pass  that  those  emotions  of  sorrow 
which  tragedy  excites,  afford  any  gratification  to  the  mind?  For, 
is  not  sorrow  in  its  nature  a  painful  passion?  Is  not  real  distress 
often  occasioned  to  the  spectators,  by  the  dramatic  rcproeniations 
at  which  they  assist?  Do  we  not  see  their  tears  flow?  and  yet, 
while  the  impression  of  what  they  have  suffered  remains  upon  then 
minds,  they  again  assemble  in  crowds  to  renew  the  same  distresses. 
The  question  is  not  without  difficulty,  and  various  solutions  of  it  have 
been  proposed  by  ingenious  men.*     The  most  plain  and  satisfactory 

*  See  Dr.  Campbell's  Philosophy  of  Rhetoric,  Book  i.  ch.  xi.  where  an  account  is  given 
ef  the  hypothesis  of  different  critics  on  this  subject;  and  where  one  is  proposed,  with 
which,  in  the  main,  I  agree.  See  also  Lcrd  Kaimes's  Essays  on  the  Principles  of  Mo- 
rality, Es&ay  i.,  and  Mr  David  Hume's  Essay  on  Tragedy. 


516  TRAGEDY.  [lect.  xlv. 

account  of  ihe  matter,  appears  to  me  to  be  the  following.  By  the 
wise  and  gracious  constitution  of  our  nature,  the  exercise  of  all  the 
social  passions  is  attended  with  pleasure.  Nothing  is  more  pleasing 
and  grateful,  than  love  and  friendship.  Wherever  man  takes  a  strong 
interest  in  the  concerns  of  his  fellow  creatures,  an  internal  satisfaction 
is  made  to  accompany  the  feeling.  Pity,  or  compassion,  in  particu- 
lar, is,  for  wise  ends,  appointed  to  be  one  of  the  strongest  instincts 
of  our  frame,  and  is  attended  with  a  peculiar  attractive  power.  It  is 
an  affection  which  cannot  but  be  productive  of  some  distress,  on  ac- 
count of  the  sympathy  with  the  sufferers,  which  it  necessarily  in- 
volves. But  as  it  includes  benevolence  and  friendship,  it  partakes, 
at  the  same  time,  of  the  agreeable  and  pleasing  nature  of  those  affec- 
tions. The  heart  is  warmed  by  kindness  and  humanity,  at  the  same 
moment  at  which  it  is  afflicted  by  the  distresses  of  those  with  whom 
it  sympathizes:  and  the  pleasure  arising  from  those  kind  emotions, 
prevails  so  much  in  the  mixture,  and  so  far  counterbalances  the  pain, 
as  to  render  the  state  of  the  mind,  upon  the  whole,  agreeable.  At 
the  same  time,  the  immediate  pleasure,  which  always  goes  along 
with  the  operation  of  the  benevolent  and  sympathetic  affections,  de- 
rives an  addition  from  the  approbation  of  our  own  minds.  We  are 
pleased  with  ourselves,  forfeelingas  we  ought,  and  for  entering,  with 
proper  sorrow,  into  the  concerns  of  the  afflicted.  In  tragedy,  be- 
sides, other  adventitious  circumstances  concur  to  diminish  the  pain 
ful  part  of  sympathy,  and  to  increase  the  satisfaction  attending  it. 
We  are,  in  some  measure,  relieved,  by  thinking  that  the  cause  of 
our  distress  is  feigned,  not  real ;  and  we  are  also  gratified  by  the 
charms  of  poetry,  the  propriety  of  sentiment  and  language,  and  the 
beauty  of  action.  From  the  concurrence  of  these  causes,  the  plea- 
sure which  we  receive  from  tragedy,  notwithstanding  the  distress  it 
occasions,  seems  to  me  to  be  accounted  for  in  a  satisfactory  manner. 
At  the  same  time,  it  is  to  be  observed,  that,  as  there  is  always  a  mix- 
ture of  pain  in  the  pleasure,  that  pain  is  capable  of  being  so  much 
heightened,  by  the  representation  of  incidents  extremely  direful,  as 
to  shock  our  feelings,  and  to  render  us  averse,  either  to  the  reading 
of  such  tragedies,  or  to  the  beholding  of  them  upon  the  stage. 

Having  now  spoken  of  the  conduct  of  the  subject  throughout  the 
acts,  it  is  also  necessary  to  take  notice  of  the  conduct  of  the  several 
scenes  which  make  up  the  acts  of  a  play. 

The  entrance  of  a  new  personage  upon  the  stage,  forms  what  is  cal- 
led a  new  scene.  These  scenes,  or  successive  conversations,  should 
be  closely  linked  and  connected  with  each  other;  and  much  of  the 
art.  of  dramatic  composition  is  shown  in  maintaining  this  connexion. 
Two  rules  are  necessary  to  be  observed  for  this  purpose. 

The  first  is,  that,  during  the  course  of  one  act,  the  stage  should 
never  be  left  vacant,  though  but  for  a  single  moment;  that  is,  all 
the  persons  who  have  appeared  in  one  scene,  or  conversation,  should 
never  go  off  together,  and  be  succeeded  by  a  new  set  of  persons  ap 
pearing  in  the  next  scene,  independent  of  the  former.  This  makes 
a  gap,  or  total  interruption  in  the  representation,  which,  in  effect, 
puts  an  end  to  that  act.     For,  whenever  the  stage  is  evacuated. 


*ect.  xlv.]  TRAGEDY.  v~ 

the  act  is  closed.  This  rule  is,  very  generally,  observed  by  the 
French  tragedians;  but  the  English  writers,  both  of  comedy  and 
tragedy,  seldom  pay  any  regard  to  it.  Their  personages  succeed 
one  another  upon  the  stage  with  so  little  connexion ;  the  union  of 
their  scenes  is  so  much  broken,  that,  with  equal  propriety,  their 
plays  might  be  divided  into  ten  or  twelve  acts,  as  well  as  into  five. 

The  second  rule,  which  the  English  writers  also  observe  little 
better  than  the  former,  is,  that  no  person  shall  come  upon  the 
stage,  or  leave  it,  without  a  reason  appearing  to  us,  both  for  the 
one  and  the  other.  Nothing  is  more  awkward,  and  contrary  to  art, 
than  for  an  actor  to  enter,  without  our  seeing  any  cause  for  his 
appearing  in  that  scene,  except  that  it  was  for  the  poet's  purpose  he 
should  enter  precisely  at  such  a  moment;  or  for  an  actor  to  go 
away  without  any  reason  for  his  retiring,  farther  than  that  the  poet 
had  no  more  speeches  to  put  into  his  mouth.  This  is  managing  the 
personee  dramatis  exactly  like  so  many  puppets,  who  are  moved  by 
wires,  to  answer  the  call  of  the  master  of  the  show.  Whereas  the  per- 
fection of  dramatic  writing  requires  that  every  thing  should  be  con- 
ducted in  imitation,  as  near  as  possible,  of  some  real  transaction; 
where  we  are  let  into  the  secret  of  all  that  is  passing,  where  we  bo- 
hold  persons  before  us  always  busy ;  see  them  coming  and  going ; 
and  know  perfectly  whence  they  come,  and  whither  they  go,  and 
about  what  they  are  employed. 

All  that  I  have  hitherto  said,  relates  to  the  unity  of  the  dra- 
matic action.  In  order  to  render  the  unity  of  action  more  com- 
plete, critics  have  added  the  other  two  unities  of  time  and  place. 
The  strict  observance  of  these  is  more  difficult,  and,  perhaps,  not 
so  necessary.  The  unity  of  place  requires,  that  the  scene  should 
never  be  shifted ;  but  that  the  action  of  the  play  should  be  contin- 
ued to  the  end,  in  the  same  place  where  it  is  supposed  to  begin. 
The  unity  of  time,  strictly  taken,  requires,  that  the  time  of  the 
action  be  no  longer  than  the  time  that  is  allowed  for  the  represen- 
tation of  the  play ;  though  Aristotle  seems  to  have  given  the  poet  a 
little  more  liberty,  and  permitted  the  action  to  comprehend  the 
whole  time  of  one  day. 

The  intention  of  both  these  rules  is,  to  overcharge,  as  little  as 
possible,  the  imagination  of  the  spectators  with  improbable  circum- 
stances in  the  acting  of  the  play,  and  to  bring  the  imitation  more 
close  to  reality.  We  must  observe,  that  the  nature  of  dramatic  ex- 
hibitions upon  the  Greek  stage,  subjected  the  ancient  tragedians  to 
a  more  strict  observance  of  these  unities  than  is  necessary  in 
modern  theatres.  I  showed,  that  a  Greek  tragedy  was  one  uninter- 
rupted representation,  from  beginning  to  end.  There  was  no  di- 
vision of  acts  ;  no  pauses  or  interval  between  them  ;  but  the  stage 
was  continually  full ;  occupied  either  by  the  actors  or  the  chorus. 
Hence,  no  room  was  left  for  the  imagination  to  go  beyond  the  pre- 
cise time  and  place  of  the  representation ;  any  more  than  is  allowed 
during  the  continuance  of  one  act,  on  the  modern  theatre. 

But  .he  practice  of  suspending  the  spectacle  totally  for  some 
little  time  between  the  acts,  has  made  a  great  and  material  change; 


51 S  TRAGEDY.  [lect.  xlv 

gives  more  latitude  to  the  imagination,  and  renders  the  ancient 
strict  confinement  to  time  and  place  less  necessary.  While  the 
acting  of  the  play  is  interrupted,  the  spectator  can,  without  any 
great  or  violent  effort,  suppose  a  few  hours  to  pass  between  every 
act;  or  can  suppose  himself  moved  from  one  apartment  of  a  palace, 
or  one  part  of  a  city,  to  another :  and,  therefore,  too  strict  an  observ- 
ance of  these  unities  ought  not  to  be  preferred  to  higher  beauties 
of  execution,  nor  to  the  introduction  of  more  pathetic  situations, 
which  sometimes  cannot  be  accomplished  in  any  other  way,  than  by 
the  transgression  of  these  rules. 

On  the  ancient  stage,  we  plainly  see  the  poets  struggling  with 
many  an  inconvenience,  inorder  to  preserve  those  unities  which  were 
then  so  necessary.  As  the  scene  could  never  be  shifted,  they  were 
obliged  to  make  it  always  lie  in  some  court  of  a  palace,  or  some  public 
area,  to  which  all  the  persons  concerned  in  the  action  might  have 
equal  access.  This  led  to  frequent  improbabilities,  by  representing 
things  as  transacted  there,  which  naturally  ought  to  have  been  trans- 
acted before  few  witnesses,  and  in  private  apartments.  The  like  im- 
probabilities arose,  from  limitingthemselves  so  much  in  pointof  time. 
Incidents  were  unnaturally  crowded  ;  and  it  is  easy  to  point  out  seve- 
ral instances  in  the  Greek  tragedies,  where  events  are  supposed  to 
pass  during  a  song  of  the  chorus,  which  must  necessarily  have  em- 
ployed many  hours. 

But  though  it  seems  necessary  to  set  modern  poets  free  from  a 
strict  observance  of  these  dramatic  unities,  yet  we  must  remember 
there  are  certain  bounds  to  this  liberty.  Frequent  and  wild  changes 
of  time  and  place  ;  hurrying  the  spectator  from  one  distant  city,  or 
country,  to  another  ;  or  making  several  clays  or  weeks  to  pass  dur- 
ing the  course  of  the  representation,  are  liberties  which  shock  the 
imagination,  which  give  to  the  performance  a  romantic  and  unnatu- 
ral appearance,  and,  therefore,  cannot  be  allowed  in  any  dramatic 
writer  who  aspires  to  correctness.  In  particular,  we  must  remember 
that  it  is  only  between  the  acts,  that  any  liberty  can  be  given  for 
going  beyond  the  unities  of  time  and  place.  During  the  course  of 
each  act,  they  ought  to  be  strictly  observed  ;  that  is,  during  each  act 
the  scene  should  continue  the  same,  and  no  more  time  should  be 
gupposed  to  pass,  than  is  employed  in  the  representation  of  that  act. 
This  is  a  rule  which  the  French  tragedians  regularly  observe.  To 
violate  this  rule,  as  is  too  often  done  by  the  English  ;  to  change  the 
p-lace,  and  shift  the  scene  in  the  midst  of  one  act,  shows  great  incor- 
rectness, and  destroys  the  whole  intention  of  thedivision  of  a  play  into 
acts.  Mr.  Addison's  Cato  is  remarkable  beyond  most  English  trage- 
dies, for  regularity  of  conduct.  The  author  has  limited  himself,  in 
time,  to  a  single  day ;  and  in  place,  has  maintained  the  most  rigorous 
unity.  The  scene  is  never  changed ;  and  the  whole  action  passes  in 
the  hall  of  Cato's  house,  at  Utica. 

In  general,  the  nearer  a  poet  can  bring  the  dramatic  represen 
tation,  in  all  its  circumstances,  to  an  imitation  of  nature  and  real  life, 
the  impression  which  he  makes  on  us  will  always  be  the  more  perfect 


LECT.  XLV.] 


QUESTIONS. 


519 


Probability,  as  I  observed  at  the  beginning  of  the  lecture,  is  highly 
essential  to  the  conduct  of  the  tragic  action,  and  we  are  always  hurt 
by  the  want  of  it.  It  is  this  that  makes  the  observance  of  the  dra- 
matic unities  to  be  of  consequence,  as  far  as  they  can  be  observed 
without  sacrificing  more  material  beauties.  It  is  not,  as  has  been 
sometimes  said,  that  by  the  preservation  of  the  unities  of  time  and 
place,  spectators  are  deceived  into  a  belief  of  the  reality  of  the  ob- 
jects  which  are  set  before  them  on  the  stage ;  and  that,  when  those 
unities  are  violated,  the  charm  is  broken,  and  they  discover  the  whole 
to  be  a  fiction.  No  such  deception  as  this  can  ever  be  accomplished. 
No  one  ever  imagines  himself  to  be  at  Athens,  or  Rome,  when  a 
Greek  or  Roman  subject  is  presented  on  the  stage.  He  knows  the 
whole  to  be  an  imitation  only  ;  but  he  requires  that  imitation  to  be 
conducted  with  skill  and  verisimilitude.  His  pleasure,  the  enter- 
tainment which  he  expects,  the  interest  which  he  is  to  take  in  the 
story,  all  depend  on  its  being  so  conducted.  His  imagination,  there- 
fore, seeks  to  aid  the  imitation,  and  to  rest  on  the  probability  ;  and 
the  poet,  who  shocks  him  by  improbable  circumstances,  and  by 
awkward,  unskilful  imitation,  deprives  him  of  his  pleasure,  and 
leaves  him  hurt  and  displeased.  This  is  the  whole  mystery  of  the 
theatrical  illusion. 


QUESTIONS. 


How  has  dramatic  poetry,  among 
all  civilized  nations,  been  considered, 
and  of  what  has  it  been  judged  worthy? 
According  to  what,  does  it  divide  into 
die  two  forms  of  comedy  or  tragedy  ? 
Why  has  tragedy  always  been  consi- 
dered a  more  dignified  entertainment 
than  comedy  ?  Upon  what  do  they 
respectively  rest ;  and  what  are  their 
respective  instruments  ?  Which,  there- 
fore, shall  be  the  object  of  our  fullest 
discussion?  When  is  tragedy  a  noble 
idea  of  poetry  ?  Of  what  is  it  a  direct 
imitation  ;  and  why  ?  Hence,  what  fol- 
lows ?  What  is  it,  or  what  ought  it  to 
be  ?  As  tragedy  is  a  high  species  of 
composition,  so  also,  in  its  general  strain 
and  spirit,  to  what  is  it  favourable? 
How  is  this  remark  illustrated  ?  What 
does  every  poet  find  ?  Why  must  he 
sometimes  represent  the  virtuous  un- 
fortunate ;  but  what  will  he  always 
study  to  do  ?  Though  they  may  be  de- 
scribed asunprospeious,  yet  of  what  is 
there  no  instance?  Even  when  bad  men 
puccecd  in  their  designs,  what  follows? 
What  sentiments  are  most  generally 
excited  by  tragedy ;  and  therefore, 
what  must  be  acknowledged  ?  Taking 
.rajjedies  complexly,  of  what  is  our 
author  fully  persuaded ;  and,  there- 
fore, upon  what  must  the  zeal  which 
Borne  pious  men  have  shown  against 
4F 


the  entertainments  of  the  theatre,  rest? 
What  account  does  Aristotle  give  of 
the  design  of  tragedy  ?  Of  this  defini- 
tion, what  is  observed ;  and  what  may 
be  considered  a  better  one  ?  When  does 
an  author  accomplish  all  the  moral 
purposes  of  tragedy?  In  order  to  this 
end,  what  is  the  first  requisite ;  and  why  ? 
What  is  the  object  of  the  epic  poet,  and 
what  follows?  How  is  this  illustrated? 
From  what  does  it  appear  that  tragedy 
demands  a  stricter  imitation  of  the  lite 
and  actions  of  men?  How,  only,  can 
passion  be  raised  ?  What,  therefore,  fol- 
Ioavs?  What  does  this  principle  exclude 
from  tragedy?  Why  have  ghosts  main- 
tained their  place  ?  But  what  is  to  be 
condemned  ;  and  why  ?  Of  this  mix- 
ture of  machinery  with  the  tragic  ac- 
tion, what  is  observed?  In  order  to 
promote  that  impression  of  probability 
which  is  so  necessary  for  the  success  ot* 
tragedy,  what  have  some  critics  re- 
quired ?  Of  what  tragedies  were  such 
the  subjects  ?  But  why  cannot  our  au- 
thor hold  this  to  be  a  matter  of  any 
great  consequence  ?  In  order  to  our  be- 
ing moved,  what  is  not  necessary? 
How  is  this  position  farther  illustrated, 
and  what  instances  are  mentioned? 
Whether  the  subject  be  real  or  feigned, 
on  what  does  most  depend  for  render- 
ing the  incidents  in  a  tragedy  proba 


519  a 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  xlv 


hie?  To  regulate  this  conduct,  what 
famous  rule  have  critics  laid  down; 
and  of  them,  what  is  observed  ?  But  in 
order  to  do  this  with  more  advantage, 
what  is  first  necessary  ?  What  was  the 
state  of  tragedy,  in  its  beginning? 
What  was  its  origin  among  the  Greeks? 
How  were  these  poems  sung  ?  In  or- 
der to  throw  some  variety  into  this  en- 
tertainment, what  was  thought  proper? 
Who  made  this  innovation ;  of  him, 
what  is  observed ;  and  what  is  said  of 
iEschylus  ?  Of  what  these  actors  reci- 
ted, what  is  remarked  ?  What  did  this 
begin  to  give  the  drama,  and  by  whom 
was  it  soon  perfected  ?  What  is  remark- 
able j  and  how  is  this  illustrated  ? 
From  this  account,  what  appears  ;  and 
of  it,  what  is  further  observed?  To 
what  question  has  this  given  rise  ? 
What  must  be  admitted  ;  and  why  ? 
The  chorus,  at  the  same  time,  conveyed 
what ;  and  of"  what  persons  was  it 
composed  ?  Of  this  company,  what  is 
further  remarked  ?  What  illustration 
of  this  remark  is  given  ?  But,  notwith- 
standing the  advantages  of  the  chorus, 
yet  what  is  observed ;  and  why  ?  How 
is  this  remark  fully  illustrated  ?  What 
may  be  confidently  asserted?  What 
use  might  still  be  made  of  the  ancient 
chorus  ?  What  would  be  the  effect  of 
this?  After  the  view  which  we  have 
taken  of  the  rise  of  tragedy,  &c.  for 
examining  what,  is  our  way  cleared  ? 
Of  these  three,  which  is  the  most  im- 
portant? When  was  its  nature  explain- 
ed ;  and  in  what  does  it  consist  ?  Why 
is  this  unity  of  subject  still  more  essen- 
tial to  tragedy,  than  it  is  to  epic  poetry? 
What,  therefore,  follows;  and  why? 
What  may  there  be?  With  what  ought 
they  to  be  connected;  and  for  what 
reason  ?  Where  have  we  a  clear  ex- 
ample of  this  defect  ?  What  is  the  sub- 
ject of  this  tragedy ;  and  what  is  said 
of  Cato  himself?  But  what  are  mere 
episodes ;  why  did  the  author  intro- 
duce them ;  and  what  follows  ? 

Of  what  must  we  take  care  ?  What 
do  unity  and  simplicity  respectively 
import  in  dramatic  composition?  Of 
the  Greek  tragedies,  what  is  here  ob- 
served ?  How  is  this  remark  illustrated 
from  the  GSdipus  and  Philoctetes  of 
Sophocles  ?  Yet  of  these  simple  sub- 
jects, what  is  observed?  Among  the 
moderns,  what  has  been  admitted  into 
tra<redy;  and  what  has  it  become? 
What  remark  follows  ?  Why  is  this  va- 
riety an  improvement  in  tragedy?  But 


of  what  must  the  poet  beware ;  and 
why?  What  instance  is  given  to  illus- 
trate this  remark  ;  and  of  it,  what  ia 
observed  ?  What  must  unity  of  action 
also  regulate?  What  foundation  has 
the  division  of  every  play  into  five 
acts  ?  How  does  it  appear  to  be  purely 
arbitrary?  On  the  Greek  stage,  what 
was  totally  unknown ;  and  from  what 
does  this  appear  ?  What  was  the  Greek 
tragedy?  How  is  this  illustrated? 
What  is  remarked  of  the  intervals  at 
which  the  chorus  sung?  As  practice 
has  now  established  a  different  plan, 
about  what  must  the  poet  be  careful  ? 
What  should  the  first  act  contain,  and 
how  ought  it  to  be  managed?  With 
what  does  it  make  them  acquainted  ? 
Of  a  striking  introduction,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  In  the  ruder  times  of  the  dra- 
ma, how  was  the  exposition  of  the  sub  • 
ject  made  ;  and  what  instance  is  men- 
tioned ?  As  such  an  introduction  is  ey 
tremely  artificial,  what  follows  ?  Dur- 
ing which  acts,  should  the  plot  gradu- 
ally thicken  ?  Here,  what  should  be 
the  poets  great  object ;  and  why  ? 
What  should  he  therefore  do?  What 
remark  follows ;  and  of  whom  is  thus 
the  great  excellence  ?  But  of  French 
tragedians,  what  is  observed  ?  What 
should  reiirn  throughout  a  tragedy ; 
and  why?  Of  the  fifth  act,  whatf is  re- 
marked ?  What  is  the  first  rule  con- 
cerning it;  and  hence,  what  are  faulty? 
What  is  the  next  rule;  and  why?  In 
the  last  place,  what  is  observed;  and 
how  is  this  illustrated  ?  Of  what  were 
the  ancients  fond?  When  are  such 
discoveries  extremely  striking ;  and 
what  instances  are  given  ?  What  is 
not  essential  to  the  catastrophe  of  a 
tragedy  ;  and  why  ?  In  proof  of  this 
remark,  what  instances  are  given  ? 
But  in  general,  to  what  does  the  spirit 
of  English  tragedy  lean  ?  What  ques- 
tion naturally  occurs  here ;  and  why  ? 
Of  this  question,  what  is  observed  ? 
What  is  the  most  plain  and  satisfacto- 
ry account  of  the  matter  ?  By  what 
are  we,  in  some  measure,  relieved;  and 
by  what  are  we  gratified  ?  What  re- 
mark follows  ?  At  the  same  time,  what 
must  be  observed  ?  Having  spoken  of 
the  conduct  of  the  subject  throughout 
the  acts,  of  what  is  it  necessary  also  k 
take  notice  ?  What  forms  a  new  scene ; 
and  of  these  scenes,  what  is  observed  ? 
For  this  purpose,  what  is  the  first  rule 
to  be  observed?  Of  this,  what  is  le- 
marked  ;  and  why  ?  By  whom  is  'Jiit 


LECT     KLVI.J 


TRAGEDY. 


519  6 


rule  observed  ;  and  by  whom  is  ii  not  1 1 
Hew  does  this  appear?  What  ia  the 
second  rule ;  and  why  ?  This  is  mana- 
ging the  persona?  dramatis  in  what 
manner  ?  Whereas,  what  does  the  per- 
fection of  dramatic  writing  require? 
All  that  has  hitherto  been  said,  relates 
to  what;  and  in  order  to  render  it 
more  complete,  what  have  critics  add- 
ed ?  Of  the  strict  observance  of  these, 
what  is  observed  ?  What  do  they  re- 
spectively require?  What  is  the  inten- 
tion of  both  these  rules  ?  What  must  we 
observe  ?  From  w,hat  does  this  appear ; 
and  hence,  for  what  was  there  no  room 
left  ?  What  has  been  the  effect  of  sus- 
pending the  spectacle  totally  for  some 
tittle  time  between  the  acts?  While 
the  acting  of  the  play  is  interrupted, 
what  can  the  spectator  do ;  and  there- 
fore, what  follows?  On  the  ancient 
stage,  what  do  we  plainly  see  ?  As  the 
scene  could  not  be  shifted,  what  was 
the  consequence  ?  To  what  did  this 
lead  ?  From  what  did  the  like  improba- 
bilities arise;  and  why?  Though  mo- 
dern poets  need  not  strictly  to  observe 


these  unities,  yet  what  must  we  re- 
member ;  and  why  ?  In  particular, 
what  must  we  remember  ?  How  is  this 
illustrated;  and  what  instances  of  an 
adherence  to  this  rule  are  mentioned  ? 
When  will  the  impression  in  general, 
be  the  more  perfect?  How  is  this  re- 
mark fully  illustrated  ? 


ANALYSIS. 

Dramatic  poetry. 
1.  Tragedy. 

a.  The  strain  and  spirit  favourable  to 

virtue. 

b.  Aristotle's  Account  of  it. 

c.  The  subject. 
D.  The  origin. 

e.  The  chorus. 

f.  Unity. 

a.  Unity  of  action. 

(a.)  Unity  and  simplicity  contrast- 
ed. 

(6.)  Directions  for  the  conduct  of 
the  acts. 

(c.)  The  close  considered. 

(d.)  Why  tragic  representations  af- 
fords gratification. 

(e.)  Directions  for  the  scenes  of  the 
acts. 

b.  Unity  of  time  and  place. 


LECTURE  XL, VI. 


TRAGEDY.— GREEK— FRENCH— ENGLISH  TRAGEDY. 

Having  treated  of  the  dramatic  action  in  tragedy,  I  proceed  next 
to  treat  of  the  characters  most  proper  to  be  exhibited.  It  has  beer 
thought,  by  several  critics,  that  the  nature  of  tragedy  requires  the 
principal  personages  to  be  always  of  illustrious  character,  and  of 
high,  or  princely  rank  ;  whose  misfortunes  and  sufferings,  it  is  said, 
take  faster  hold  of  the  imagination,  and  impress  the  heart  more 
forcibly,  than  similar  events  happening  to  persons  in  private  life. 
But  this  is  more  specious  than  solid.  It  is  refuted  by  facts.  For  the 
distresses  of  Desdemona,  Monimia,  and  Belvidera,  interest  us  as 
deeply  as  if  they  had  been  princesses  or  queens.  The  dignity  of 
tragedy  does,  indeed,  require  that  there  should  be  nothing  degrad 
ing  or  mean  in  the  circumstances  of  the  persons  which  it  exhibits, 
but  it  requires  nothing  more.  Their  high  rank  may  render  the 
spectacle  more  splendid,  and  the  subject  seemingly  of  more  impor- 
tance, but  conduces  very  little  to  its  being  interesting  or  pathetic  ; 
which  depends  entirely  on  the  nature  of  the  tale,  on  the  art  of  the 
poet  in  conducting  it,  and  on  the  sentiments  to  which  it  gives  oc- 
casion. In  every  rank  of  life,  the  relations  of  Tather,  husband,  son, 
brother,  lover,  or  friend,  lay  the  foundation  of  those  affecting  situa- 
tions, which  make  man's  heart  feel  for  man. 


520  TRAGEDY.  [lect.  xlvi 

The  moral  chaiacters  of  the  persons  represented,  are  of  much 
greater  consequence  than  the  external  circumstances  in  which  the 
poet  places  them.  Nothing,  indeed,  in  the  conduct  of  tragedy,  de- 
mands a  poet's  attention  more,  than  so  to  describe  his  personages, 
and  so  to  order  the  incidents  which  relate  to  them,  as  shall  leave 
upon  the  spectators  impressions  favourable  to  virtue,  and  to  the  ad- 
ministration of  Providence.  It  is  not  necessary,  for  this  end,  that 
poetical  justice,  as  it  is  called,  should  be  observed  in  the  catastrophe 
of  the  piece.  This  has  been  long  exploded  from  tragedy  ;  the  end 
of  „ which  is,  to  affect  us  with  pity  for  the  virtuous  in  distress,  and  to 
afford  a  probable  representation  of  the  state  of  human  life,  where 
calamities  often  befall  the  best,  and  a  mixed  portion  of  good  and  evil 
is  appointed  for  all.  But,  withal,  the  author  must  beware  of  shock- 
ing our  minds  with  such  representations  of  life  as  tend  to  raise 
horror,  or  to  render  v'rtue  an  object  of  aversion.  Though  innocent 
persons  suffer,  their  sufferings  ought  to  be  attended  with  such  cir- 
cumstances, as  shall  make  virtue  appear  amiable  and  venerable ; 
and  shall  render  their  condition,  on  the  whole,  preferable  to  that  ol 
bad  men,  who  have  prevailed  against  them.  The  stings  and  the 
remorse  of  guilt,  must  ever  be  represented  as  productive  of  greater 
miseries,  than  any  that  the  bad  can  bring  upon  the  good. 

Aristotle's  observations  on  the  characters  proper  for  tragedy, 
are  very  judicious.  He  is  of  opinion,  that  perfect  unmixed  charac- 
ters, either  of  good  or  ill  men,  are  not  the  fittest  to  be  introduced. 
The  distresses  of  the  one,  being  wholly  unmerited,  hurt  and  shock 
js  ;  and  the  sufferings  of  the  other,  occasion  no  pity.  Mixed  cha- 
racters, such  as  in  fact  we  meet  with  in  the  world,  afford  the  most 
proper  field  for  displaying,  without  any  bad  effect  on  morals,  the 
vicissitudes  of  life;  and  they  interest  us  the  more  deeply,  as  they 
display  the  emotions  and  passions  of  which  we  have  all  been  conscious. 
When  such  persons  fall  into  distress  through  the  vices  of  others 
the  subject  may  be  very  pathetic  ;  b  .t  it  is  always  more  instructive 
when  a  person  has  been  himself  the  cause  of  his  misfortune,  and 
when  his  misfortune  is  occasioned  by  the  violence  of  passion,  or  by 
some  weakness  incident  to  human  nature.  Such  subjects  both  dis- 
pose us  to  the  deepest  sympathy,  and  administer  useful  warnings  to 
us  for  our  own  conduct. 

Upon  these  principles,  it  surprises  me  that  the  story  of  CEdipus 
should  have  been  so  much  celebrated  by  all  the  critics,  as  one  of  the 
fittest  subjects  for  tragedy,  and  so  often  brought  upon  the  Mage, 
not  by  Sophocles  only,  but  by  Corneille  also,  and  Voltaire.  An  in- 
nocent person,  one  in  the  main,  of  a  virtuous  character,  through  no 
crime  of  his  own,  nay,  not  by  the  vices  of  others,  but  through  mere 
f  '  -V»y  and  blind  chance,  is  involved  in  the  greatest  of  all  human 
mis  • ;  i.  In  a  casual  rencounter  he  kills  his  father,  without  know- 
ing him  ;  he  afterwards  is  married  to  his  own  mother ;  and,  discover- 
ing himself,  in  the  end,  to  have  committed  both  parricide  and  incpst 
he  becomes  frantic,  and  dies  in  the  utmost  misery.  Such  a  subject 
excites  horror  rather  than  pity.  As  it  is  conducted  by  Sophocles,  * 
is  indeed  extremely  affecting;  but  it  conveys  no  instruction;  it  awa- 


lect  xlvi.]  TRAGEDY  521 

kens  in  the  mind  no  tender  sympathy ;  it  leaves  no  impression  fa- 
vourable to  virtue  or  humanity. 

It  must  be  acknowledged,  that  the  subjects  of  the  ancient  Greek 
tragedies  were  too  often  founded  on  mere  destiny  and  inevitable 
misfortunes.  They  were  too  much  mixed  with  their  tales  about 
oracles,  and  the  vengeance  of  the  gods,  which  led  to  many  an  in- 
cident sufficiently  melancholy  and  tragical;  but  rather  purely  tra- 
gical, than  useful  or  moral.  Hence,  both  the  CEdipuses  of  Sopho- 
cles, the  Iphigenia  in  Aulis,  the  Hecuba  of  Euripides,  and  several 
of  the  like  kind.  In  the  course  of  the  drama,  many  moral  senti- 
ments occurred.  But  the  instruction  which  the  fable  of  the  play 
conveyed,  seldom  was  any  more  than  that  reverence  was  owing  to 
the  gods,  and  submission  due  to  the  decrees  of  destiny.  Modern 
tragedy  has  aimed  at  a  higher  object,  by  becoming  more  the  theatre 
of  passion  ;  pointing  out  to  men  the  consequences  of  their  miscon« 
duct;  showing  the  direful  effects  which  ambition,  jealousy,  love, 
resentment,  and  other  such  strong  emotions,  when  misguided,  or 
left  unrestrained,  produce  upon  human  life.  An  Othello,  hurried 
by  jealousy  to  murder  his  innocent  wife  ;  a  Jaffier,  insnared  by  re- 
sentment and  want,  to  engage  in  a  conspiracy,  and  then  stung  with 
remorse,  and  involved  in  ruin  ;  a  Siffredi,  through  the  deceit  which 
he  employs  for  public  spirited  ends,  bringing  destruction  on  all 
whom  he  loved;  a  Calista,  seduced  into  a  criminal  intrigue,  which 
overwhelms  herself,  her  father,  and  all  her  friends  in  misery;  these, 
and  such  as  these,  are  the  examples  which  tragedy  now  displays 
to  public  view;  and  by  means  of  which  it  inculcates  on  men  the 
proper  government  of  their  passions. 

Of^all  the  passions  which  furnish  matter  to  tragedy,  that  which 
has  most  occupied  the  modern  stage,  is  love.  To  the  ancient  thea- 
tre, it  was  in  a  manner  wholly  unknown.  In  few  of  their  tragedies 
is  it  ever  mentioned  ;  and  I  remember  no  more  than  one  which  turns 
upon  it,  the  Hippolitus  of  Euripides.  This  was  owing  to  the  na 
tional  manners  of  the  Greeks,  and  to  that  greater  separation  of  thi. 
two  sexes  from  one  another, than  has  taken  place  in  modern  times, 
aided  too,  perhaps,  by  this  circumstance,  that  no  female  actress  evei 
appeared  on  the  ancient  stage.  But  though  no  reason  appears  for 
the  total  exclusion  of  love  from  the  theatre,  yet  with  what  justice  or 
propriety  it  has  usurped  so  much  place,  as  to  be  in  a  manner  the  sole 
hinge  of  modern  tragedy,  may  be  much  questioned.  Voltaire,  who 
is  no  less  eminent  as  a  critic  than  as  a  poet,  declares  loudly  and 
strongly  against  this  predominancy  of  love,  as  both  degrading  the 
majesty,  and  confining  the  natural  limits  of  tragedy.  And  assuredly, 
the  mfxing  of  it  perpetually  with  all  the  great  and  solemn  revolu- 
tions of  human  fortune  which  belong  to  the  tragic  stage,  tends  to  give 
tragedy  too  much  the  air  of  gallantry  and  juvenile  entertainment 
The  Athalie  of  Racine,  the  Merope  of  Voltaire,  the  Douglas  of  Mr. 
Home,  are  sufficient  proofs,  that  without  any  assistance  from  love, 
the  drama  is  capable  of  producing  its  highest  effects  upon  the  mind. 

This  seems  to  be  clear,  that  wherever  love  is  introduced  into  tra- 
gedy, it  ought  to  reign  in  it,  and  to  give  rise  to  the  principal  action 

66 


522  TRAGEDY. 


[LECT.    XLVI. 


U  ought  to  be  that  sort  of  love  which  possesses  all  the  force  and  ma- 
jesty of  passion;  and  whhh  occasions  great  and  important  conse- 
quences. For  nothing  can  have  a  worse  effect,  or  be  more  debasing 
to  tragedy,  than,  together  with  the  manly  and  heroic  passions,  to 
mingle  a  trifling  love  intrigue,  as  a  sort  of  seasoning  to  the  play. 
The  bad  effects  of  this  are  sufficiently  conspicuous  both  in  the  Cato 
of  Mr.  Addison,  as  I  had  occasion  before  to  remark,  and  in  the 
Iphigenie  of  Racine. 

After  a  tragic  poet  has  arranged  his  subject,  and  chosen  his  per- 
sonages, the  next  thing  he  must  attend  to,  is  the  propriety  of  sen- 
timents; that  they  be  perfectly  suited  to  the  characters  of  those 
persons  to  whom  they  are  attributed,  and  to  the  situations  in  which 
ihey  are  placed.  The  necessity  of  observing  this  general  rule  is  so 
obvious,  that  I  need  not  insist  upon  it.  It  is  principally  in  the  pa- 
thetic parts,  that  both  the  difficulty  and  the  importance  of  it  are  the 
greatest.  Tragedy  is  the  region  of  passion.  We  come  to  it  expect- 
ing to  be  moved ;  and  let  the  poet  be  ever  so  judicious  in  his  con- 
duct, moral  in  his  intentions,  and  elegant  in  his  style,  yet  if  he  fails  in 
the  pathetic,  he  has  no  tragic  merit;  we  return  cold  and  disappoint- 
ed from  the  performance;  and  never  desire  to  meet  with  it  more. 

To  paint  passion  so  truly  and  justly  as  to  strike  the  hearts  of  the 
hearers  with  full  sympathy,  is  a  prerogative  of  genius  given  to  few. 
It  requires  strong  and  ardent  sensibility  of  mind.  It  requires  the 
author  to  have  the  power  of  entering  deeply  into  the  characters 
which  he  draws ;  of  becoming  for  a  moment  the  very  person  whom 
he  exhibits,  and  of  assuming  all  his  feelings.  For,  as  I  have  often  had 
occasion  to  observe,  there  is  no  possibility  of  speaking  properly  the 
language  of  any  passion,  without  feeling  it ;  and  it  is  to  the  absence 
9r  deadness  of  real  emotion,  that  we  must  ascribe  the  want  of  suc- 
cess in  so  many  tragic  writers,  when  they  attempt  being  pathetic. 

No  man,  for  instance,  when  he  is  under  the  strong  agitations  of 
anger,  or  grief,  or  any  such  violent  passion,  ever  thinks  of  describ- 
ing to  another  what  his  feelings  at  that  time  are  ;  or  of  telling  them 
what  he  resembles.  This  never  was,  and  never  will  be,  the  lan- 
guage of  any  person,  when  he  is  deeply  moved.  It  is  the  lan- 
guage of  one  who  describes  coolly  the  condition  of  that  person  to 
another ;  or  it  is  the  language  of  the  passionate  person  himself, 
after  his  emotion  has  subsided,  relating  what  his  situation  was  in 
the  moments  of  passion.  Yet  this  sort  of  secondary  description, 
is  what  tragic  poets  too  often  give  us,  instead  of  the  native  and  pri- 
mary language  of  passion.  Thus,  in  Mr.  Addison's  Cato,  when 
Lucia  confesses  to  Portius  her  love  for  him,  but  at  the  same  time, 
swears  with  the  greatest  solemnity,  that  in  the  present  situation  of 
rheir  country  she  will  never  marry  him;  Portius  receives  this  un- 
expected sentence  with  the  utmost  astonishment  and  grief;  at  least 
he  ;X>et  wants  to  make  us  believe  that  he  so  received  it.  How  does 
ne  express  these  feelings? 

Fix'd  in  astonishment,  I  gaze  upon  thee, 
Like  one  just  blasted  by  a  stroke  from  heav'n 
Who  pants  for  breath,  and  stiffens  yet  alive 
In  dreadful  looks  ;  a  monument  of  wrath 


lect.  xlvi.J  TRAGEDY.  523 

This  makes  his  whole  reply  to  Lucia.  Now  did  any  person,  who 
was  of  a  sudden  astonished  and  overwhelmed  with  sorrow,  ever 
since  the  creation  of  the  world,  express  himself  in  this  manner? 
This  is  indeed  an  excellent  description  to  be  given  us  by  another, 
of  a  person  who  was  in  such  a  situation.  Nothing  would  have 
been  more  proper  for  a  bystander,  recounting  this  conference,  than 
to  have  said, 

Fix'd  in  astonishment,  he  gaz'd  upon  her 
Like  one  just  blasted  by  a  stroke  from  heav'n, 
Who  pants  for  breath,  &.C. 

But  the  person,  who  is  himself  concerned,  speaks  on  such  an  oc- 
casion in  a  very  different  manner.  He  gives  vent  to  his  feelings: 
he  pleads  for  pity ;  he  dwells  upon  the  cause  of  his  grief  and  aston- 
ishment; but  never  thinks  of  describing  his  own  person  and  looks, 
and  showing  us,  by  a  simile,  what  he  resembles.  Such  represen- 
tations of  passions  are  no  better  in  poetry  than  it  would  be  in  paint- 
ing, to  make  a  label  issue  from  the  mouth  of  a  figure,  bidding 
as  remark,  that  this  figure  represents  an  astonished  or  a  grieved 
person. 

On  some  other  occasions,  when  poets  do  not  employ  this  sort 
of  descriptive  language  in  passion,  they  are  too  apt  to  run  into 
forced  and  unnatural  thoughts,  in  order  to  exaggerate  the  feelings 
of  persons,  whom  they  would  paint  as  very  strongly  moved.  When 
Osmyn,  in  the  Mourning  Bride,  after  parting  with  Almeria,  re- 
grets, in  a  long  soliloquy,  that  his  eyes  only  see  objects  that  are 
present,  and  cannot  see  Almeria  after  she  is  gone;  when  Jane 
Shore,  in  Mr.  Rowe's  tragedy,  on  meeting  with  her  husband  in 
ner  extreme  distress,  and  finding  that  he  had  forgiven  her,  calls  on 
the  rains  to  give  her  their  drops,  and  the  springs  to  give  her  their 
streams,  that  she  may  never  want  a  supply  of  tears  ;  in  such  pas- 
sages, we  see  very  plainly,  that  it  is  neither  Osmyn,  nor  Jane  Shore, 
that  speak;  but  the  poet  himself  in  his  own  person,  who,  instead 
of  assuming  the  feelings  of  those  whom  he  means  to  exhibit,  and 
speaking  as  they  would  have  done  in  such  situations,  is  straining 
his  fancy,  and  spurring  up  his  genius,  to  say  something  that  shall 
be  uncommonly  strong  and  lively. 

If  we  attend  to  the  language  that  is  spoken  by  persons  under  the 
influence  of  real  passion,  we  shall  find  it  always  plain  and  simple; 
abounding  indeed  with  those  figures  which  express  a  disturbed  and 
impetuous  state  of  mind,  such  as  interrogations,  exclamations,  and 
apostrophes;  but  never  employing  those  which  belong  to  the  mere 
embellishment  and  parade  of  speech.  We  never  meet  with  any 
subtilty  or  refinement,  in  the  sentiments  of  real  passion.  The 
thoughts  which  passion  suggests,  are  always  plain  and  obvious  ones, 
arising  directly  from  its  object.  Passion  never  reasons,  nor  specu- 
lates, till  its  ardour  begins  to  cool.  It  never  leads  to  long  discourse 
or  declamation.  On  the  contrary,  it  expresses  itself  most  commonly 
in  short,  broken,  and  interrupted  speeches  ;  corresponding  to  the  vio- 
lent and  desultory  emotions  of  the  mind. 

When  we  examine  the  French  tragedians  by  these  principles, 


5°<>  TRAGEDY.  [lect.  xlvi 

which  seem  clearly  founded  in  nature,  we  find  them  often  deficient 
Though  in  many  parts  of  tragic  composition,  they  have  great  merit  • 
though  in  exciting  soft  and  tender  emotions,  some  of  them  are  very 
successful ;  yet,  in  the  high  and  strong  pathetic,  they  generally  fail. 
Their  passionate  speeches  too  often  run  into  long  declamation. 
There  is  too  much  reasoning  and  refinement ;  too  much  pomp  and 
studied  beauty  in  them.  They  rather  convey  a  feeble  impres 
sion  of  passion,  than  awaken  any  strong  sympathy  in  the  reader's 
mind. 

Sophocles  and  Euripides  are  much  more  successful  in  this  part  of 
composition.  In  their  pathetic  scenes,  we  find  no  unnatural  refine- 
ment ;  no  exaggerated  thoughts.  They  set  before  us  the  plain  and 
direct  feelings  of  nature,  in  simple  expressive  language  ;  and  there- 
fore on  great  occasions,  they  seldom  fail  of  touching  the  heart.* 
This  too  is  Shakspeare's  great  excellency  j  and  to  this  it  is  princi- 
pally owing,  that  his  dramatic  productions,  notwithstanding  their 
many  imperfections,  have  been  so  long  the  favourites  of  the  public. 
He  is  more  faithful  to  the  true  language  of  nature,  in  the  midst  of 
passion,  than  any  writer.  He  gives  us  this  language,  unadulterated 
by  art ;  and  more  instances  of  it  can  be  quoted  from  him,  than  from 
all  other  tragic  poets  taken  together.  I  shall  refer  only  to  that  admi- 
rable scene  in  Macbeth,  where  Macduff  receives  the  account  of  his 
^vife,  and  all  his  children,  being  slaughtered  in  his  absence.  The 
emotions,  first  of  grief,  and  then  of  the  most  fierce  resentment  rising 
against  Macbeth,  are  painted  in  such  a  manner,  that  there  is  no  heart 
but  must  feel  them,  and  no  fancy  can  conceive  any  thing  more  ex- 
pressive of  nature. 

With  regard  to  moral  sentiments  and  reflections  in  tragedies,  it  is 
clear  that  they  must  not  recur  too  often.  They  lose  their  effect, 
when  unseasonably  crowded.  They  render  the  play  pedantic  and 
declamatory.  This  is  remarkably  the  case  with  those  Latin  trage 
dies  which  go  under  the  name  of  Seneca,  which  are  little  more 
than  a  collection  of  declamations  and  moral  sentiments,  wrought 
up  with  a  quaint  brilliancy,  which  suited  the  prevailing  taste  of  that 
age. 

I  am  not,  however,  of  opinion,  that  moral  reflections  ought  to  b€ 
altogether  omitted  in  tragedies.  When  properly  introduced,  they 
give  dignity  to  the  composition,  and  on  many  occasions,  they  are 
extremely  natural.  When  persons  are  under  any  uncommon  dis- 
tress :  when  they  are  beholding  in  others,  or  experiencing  in  them- 
selves, the  vicissitudes  of  human  fortune ;  indeed,  when  they  are 
placed  in  any  of  the  great  and  trying  situations  of  life,  serious  and 

*  Nothing,  for  instance,  can  be  more  touching  and  pathetic  than  the  address  which 
Medea,  in  Euripides,  makes  to  her  children,  when  she  had  formed  the  r*  olution  o 
putting  them  to  death,  and  nothing  more  natural  than  the  conflict  whici»  ?he  is  d* 
jcribeu  as  suffering  on  that  occasion : 

$«u,  Geo*  Tl  7rpo<j£ifixt<r&i  fjt   o/u/uairtv,  tuk, 
T»  Tio<ryt\a.ri  rov  Tra.ivrTZ.'roi  }fA»s"; 
A»,  a»*  Tl  $z*<ru  ;   xa£<fi*  yi°  c:^*r*lt 
TvtttUts ,  o/ufx*.  p=t(/pov  fl»f  «<fsv  TfKVaiv. 
Oil*  £r  fuvaiunv'     ^«<g«T«  /3cuxk/(u*t*. 


t£CT.  xlvi.]  TRAGEDY.  ~<2b 

moral  reflections  naturally  occur  to  them,  whether  they  be  persons 
of  much  virtue  or  not.  Almost  every  human  being  is,  on  sucn  oc- 
casions, disposed  to  be  serious.  It  is  then  the  natural  tone,  ot  the 
mind;  and  therefore  no  tragic  poet  should  omit  such  proper  oppor- 
tunities, when  they  occur,  for  favouring  the  interests  of  virtue 
Cardinal  Wolsey's  soliloquy  upon  his  fall,  for  instance,  in  Shak- 
speare,  when  he  bids  a  long  farewell  to  all  his  greatness,  and  the  ad- 
vices which  he  afterwards  gives  to  Cromwell,  are,  in  his  situation,  ex- 
tremely natural;  touch  and  please  all  readers;  and  are  at  once  in» 
structive  and  affecting.  Much  of  the  merit  of  Mr.  Addison's  Cato 
depends  upon  that  moral  turn  of  thought  which  distinguishes  it.  1 
have  had  occasion,  both  in  this  lecture  and  in  the  preceding  one,  to 
take  notice  of  some  of  its  defects  ;  and  certainly  neither  for  warmth 
of  passion  nor  proper  conduct  of  the  plot,  is  it  at  all  eminent. 
It  does  not,  however,  follow,  that  it  is  destitute  of  merit.  For,  by 
the  purity  and  beauty  of  the  language,  by  the  dignity  of  Cato's 
character,  by  that  ardour  of  public  spirit,  and  those  virtuous  senti- 
ments of  which  it  is  full,  it  has  always  commanded  high  regard  ;  and 
has,  both  in  our  own  country  and  among  foreigners,  acquired  no 
small  reputation. 

The  style  and  versification  of  tragedy  ought  to  be  free,  easy,  and 
varied.  Our  blank  verse  is  happily  suited  to  this  purpose.  It  has 
sufficient  majesty  for  raising  the  style ;  it  can  descend  to  the  simple 
and  familiar;  it  is  susceptible  of  great  variety  of  cadence;  and  is 
quite  free  from  the  constraint  and  monotony  of  rhyme.  For  mono- 
tony is,  above  all  things,  to  be  avoided  by  a  tragic  poet.  If  he  main- 
tains every  where  the  same  stateliness  of  style,  if  he  uniformly  keep 
up  the  same  run  of  measure  and  harmony  in  his  verse,  he  cannot 
fail  of  becoming  insipid.  He  should  not  indeed  sink  into  flat  and 
careless  lines;  his  style  should  always  have  force  and  dignity,  but 
not  the  uniform  dignity  of  epic  poetry.  It  should  assume  that  brisk- 
ness and  ease,  which  is  suited  tc  the  freedom  of  dialogue,  and  the 
fluctuations  of  passion. 

One  of  the  greatest  misfortunes  of  the  French  tragedy  is,  its  be- 
ing always  written  in  rhyme.  The  nature  of  the  French  language, 
indeed,  requires  this,  in  order  to  distinguish  the  style  from  mere 
prose.  But  it  fetters  the  freedom  of  the  tragic  dialogue,  fills  it  with 
a  languid  monotony,  and  is,  in  a  manner,  fatal  to  the  high  strength 
and  power  of  passion.  Voltaire  maintains,  that  the  difficulty  of  com- 
posing in  French  rhyme,  is  one  great  cause  of  the  pleasure  which 
the  audience  receives  from  the  composition.  Tragedy  would  be 
ruined,  says  he,  if  we  were  to  write  it  in  blank  verse;  take  away  the 
difficulty,  and  you  take  away  the  whole  merit.  A  strange  idea !  as 
if  the  entertainment  of  the  audience  arose,  not  from  the  emotions 
which  the  poet  is  successful  in  awakening,  but  from  a  reflection  on 
the  toil  which  he  endured  in  his  closet,  from  assorting  male  and  fe- 
male rhymes.  With  regard  to  those  splendid  comparisons  in  rhyme, 
and  strings  of  couplets,  with  which  it  was,  some  time  ago,  fashiona- 
ble for  our  English  poets  to  conclude,  not  only  every  act  of  a  tragedy, 
but  sometimes  also  the  most  interesting  scenes,  nothing  need  be  said, 
4G 


526  GREEK  TRAGEDY.  [lect.  xi.vi 

but  that  they  were  the  most  perfect  barbarisms  ;  childish  ornaments, 
introduced  to  please  a  false  taste  in  the  audience  and  now  univei* 
sally  laid  aside. 

Having  thus  treated  of  all  the  different  parts  of  tragedy,  I  shall 
conclude  the  subject,  with  a  short  view  of  the  Greek,  the  French, 
and  the  English  stage,  and  with  observations  on  tiie  principal  writers. 

Most  of  the  distinguishing  characters  of  the  Greek  tragedy  have 
been  already  occasionally  mentioned.  It  was  embellished  with  the 
lyric  poetry  of  the  chorus,  of  the  origin  of  which,  and  of  the  advan- 
tages and  disadvantages  attending  it,  I  treated  fully  in  the  preceding 
lecture.  The  plot  was  always  exceedingly  simple.  It  admitted  of  few 
incidents.  It  was  conducted  with  a  very  exact  regard  to  the  uni- 
ties of  action,  time,  and  place.  Machinery,  or  the  intervention  of 
the  gods,  was  employed;  and,  which  is  very  faulty,  the  final  un- 
ravelling sometimes  made  to  turn  upon  it.  Love,  except  in  one  or 
two  instances,  was  never  admitted  into  the  Greek  tragedy.  Their 
subjects  were  often  founded  on  destiny,  or  inevitable  misfortunes. 
A  vein  of  religious  and  moral  sentiment  always  runs  through  them; 
but  they  made  less  use  than  the  moderns  of  the  combat  of  the  pas- 
sions, and  of  the  distresses  which  our  passions  bring  upon  us.  Their 
plots  were  all  taken  from  th;  ancient  traditionary  stories  of  their 
own  nation.  Hercules  furnishes  matter  for  two  tragedies.  The 
history  of  GLdipus,  king  of  Thebes,  and  his  unfortunate  family,  for 
six.  The  war  of  Troy,  with  its  consequences,  for  no  fewer  than  sev- 
enteen. There  is  only  one  of  later  date  than  this;  which  is  the  Per- 
sae,  or  expedition  of  Xerxes,  by  ^Eschylus. 

iEschylus  is  the  father  of  Greek  tragedy,  and  exhibits  both  the 
beauties  and  the  defects  of  an  early  original  writer.  He  is  bold, 
nervous,  and  animated,  but  very  obscure  and  difficult  to  be  under- 
stood ;  partly  hy  reason  of  the  incorrect  state  in  which  we  have  his 
works,  (they  having  suffered  more  by  time,  than  any  of  the  ancient 
tragedians)  and  partly,  on  account  of  the  nature  of  his  style,  which 
is  crowded  with  metaphors,  often  harsh  and  tumid.  He  abounds 
with  martial  ideas  and  descriptions.  He  has  much  fire  and  eleva- 
tion;  less  of  tenderness  than  of  force.  He  delights  in  the  marvel- 
lous. The  ghost  of  Darius  in  the  Persae,  the  inspiration  of  Cassan- 
dra in  Agamemnon,  and  the  songs  of  the  Furies  in  the  Eumenides, 
are  beautiful  in  their  kind,  and  strongly  expressive  of  his  genius. 

Sophocles  is  the  most  masterly  of  the  three  Greek  tragedians, 
the  most  correct  in  the  conduct  of  his  subjects;  the  most  just  and 
.sublime  in  his  sentiments.  He  is  eminent  for  his  descriptive  talent 
The  relation  of  the  death  of  ffidipus,  in  his  ffidipus  Coloneus,  and 
of  the  death  of  Haemon  and  Antigone,  in  his  Antigone,  are  perfect 
patterns  of  description  to  tragic  poets.  Euripides  is  esteemed  more 
tender  than  Sophocles,  and  he  is  fuller  of  moral  sentiments.  But, 
in  the  conduct  of  his  plays,  he  is  more  incorrect  and  negligent;  his 
expositions,  or  openings  of  the  subject,  are  made  in  a  less  artfu. 
manner;  and  the  songs  of  his  chorus,  though  remarkably  poeticai, 
have,  commonly,  less  connexion  with  the  main  action,  than  those  of 
Sophocles.     Both  Euripides  and  Sophocles,  however,  have  very 


lect.  xlvi.]  GREEK  TRAGEDY.  521 

high  merit  as  tragic  poets.     They  are  elegant  and  beautiful  in  their 
style;  just,  for  the  most  part,  in  their  thoughts;  they  speak   with 
the  voice  of  nature  ;  and,  making  allowance  for  the  difference  of  an 
cient  atid  modern  ideas,  in  the  midst  of  all  their  simplicity,  they  are 
touching  and  interesting. 

The  circumstances  of  theatrical  representation  on  the  stages  of 
Greece  and  Rome,  were,  in  several  respects,  very  singular,  and 
widely  different  from  what  obtains  among  us.  Not  only  were  the 
songs  of  the  chorus  accompanied  with  instrumental  music,  but,as 
the  Abbe  du  Bos,  in  his  reflections  on  poetry  and  painting,  has  pro- 
ved, with  much  curious  erudition,  the  dialogue  part  had  also  a 
modulation  of  its  own,  which  was  capable  of  being  set  to  notes; 
it  was  carried  on  in  a  sort  of  recitative  between  the  actors,  and 
was  supported  by  instruments.  He  has  farther  attempted  to  prove, 
but  the  proof  seems  more  incomplete,  that  on  some  occasions,  on  the 
Roman  stage,  the  pronouncing  and  gesticulating  parts  were  divided  ; 
that  one  actor  spoke,  and  another  performed  tbe  gestures  and  mo- 
tions corresponding  to  what  the  first  said.  The  actors  in  tragedy 
wore  a  long  robe,  called  Syrma,  which  flowed  upon  the  stage.  They 
were  raised  upon  Cothurni,  which  rendered  their  stature  uncom- 
monly high ;  and  they  always  played  in  masks.  These  masks 
were  like  helmets,  which  covered  the  whole  head ;  the  mouths  of 
them  were  so  contrived,  as  to  give  an  artificial  sound  to  the  voice,  in 
order  to  make  it  be  heard  over  their  vast  theatres;  and  the  visage 
was  so  formed  and  painted,  as  to  suit  the  age,  characters,  or  dis- 
positions of  the  persons  represented.  When,  during  the  course 
of  one  scene,  different  emotions  were  to  appear  in  the  same  person, 
the  mask  is  said  to  have  been  so  painted,  that  the  actor,  by  turn 
ing  one  or  other  profile  of  his  face  to  the  spectators,  expressed  the 
change  of  the  situation.  This,  however,  was  a  contrivance  attended 
with  many  disadvantages.  The  mask  must  have  deprived  the 
spectators  of  all  the  pleasure  which  arises  from  the  natural  animated 
expression  of  the  eye  and  the  countenance ;  and,  joined  with  the 
other  circumstances  which  I  have  mentioned,  is  apt  to  give  us  but  an 
unfavourable  idea  of  the  dramatic  representations  of  the  ancients. 
In  defence  of  them,  it  must,  at  the  same  time,  be  remembered,  that 
their  theatres  were  vastly  more  extensive  in  the  area  than  ours,  and 
filled  with  immense  crowds.  They  were  always  uncovered,  and  ex 
posed  to  the  open  air.  The  actors  were  beheld  at  a  much  greatei 
distance,  and  of  course  much  more  imperfectly  by  the  bulk  of  the 
spectators,  which  both  rendered  their  looks  of  less  consequence,  and 
might  make  it  in  some  degree  necessary  that  their  features  should 
be  exaggerated,  the  sound  of  their  voices  enlarged,  and  their  whole 
appearance  magnified  beyond  the  life,  in  order  to  make  the  stronger 
impression.  It  is  certain,  that,  as  dramatic  spectacles  were  the  favour- 
ite entertainments  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  the  attention  given  to 
their  proper  exhibition,  and  the  magnificence  of  the  apparatus  be- 
stowed on.  their  theatres,  far  exceeded  any  thing  that  has  been  at- 
tempted in  modern  ages. 

In  the  compositions  of  some  of  the  French  dramatic  writers 


528  FRENCH  TRAGEDY.  [lect.  xlvi 

particularly  Corneille,  Racine,  and  Voltaire,  tragedy  has  appeared 
with  much  lustre  and  dignity.  They  must  be  allowed  to  have  im- 
proved upon  the  ancients,  in  introducing  more  incidents,  a  greater 
variet}'-  of  passions,  a  fuller  display  of  characters,  and  in  rendering 
the  subject  thereby  more  interesting.  They  have  studied  to  imitate 
the  ancient  models  in  regularity  of  conduct.  They  are  attentive 
to  all  the  unities,  and  to  all  the  decorums  of  sentiment  and  morali- 
ty; and  their  style  is,  generally,  very  poetical  and  elegant.  What 
an  English  taste  is  most  apt  to  censure  in  them,  is  the  want  of  fer- 
vour, strength,  and  the  natural  language  of  passion.  There  is  often 
too  much  conversation  in  their  pieces,  instead  of  action.  They 
are  too  declamatory,  as  was  before  observed,  when  they  should  be 
passionate;  too  refined,  when  they  should  be  simple.  Voltaire 
freely  acknowledges  these  defects  of  the  French  theatre.  He  ad- 
mits, that  their  best  tragedies  do  not  make  a  sufficient  impression 
on  the  heart;  that  the  gallantry  which  reigns  in  them,  and  the  long 
fine-spun  dialogue  with  which  they  over-abound,  frequently  spread 
a  languor  over  them;  that  the  authors  seemed  to  be  afraid  of  being 
too  tragic;  and  very  candidly  gives  it  as  his  judgment,  that  an  union 
of  the  vehemence  and  the  action,  which  characterize  the  English 
theatre,  with  the  correctness  and  decorum  of  the  French  theatre, 
would  be  necessary  to  form  a  perfect  tragedy. 

Corneille,  who  is  properly  the  father  of  French  tragedy,  is  distin- 
guished by  the  majesty  and  grandeur  of  his  sentiments,  and  the 
fruitfulness  of  his  imagination.  His  genius  was  unquestionably  very 
rich,  but  seemed  more  turned  towards  the  epic  than  the  tragic  vein; 
for,  in  general,  he  is  magnificent  and  splendid,  rather  than  tender 
and  touching.  Heisthemostdeclamatory  of  all  the  French  trage 
dians.  He  united  the  copiousness  of  Dryden  with  the  fire  of  Lu- 
can,  and  he  resembles  them  also  in  their  faults,  in  their  extrava- 
gance and  impetuosity.  He  has  composed  a  great  number  of  tra- 
gedies, very  unequal  in  their  merit.  His  best  and  most  esteemed 
pieces  are,  the  Cid,  Horace,  Polyeucte,  and  Cinna. 

Racine,  as  a  tragic  poet,  is  much  superior  to  Corneille.  He  want- 
ed the  copiousness  and  grandeur  of  Corneille's  imagination  ;  but  is 
free  from  his  bombast,  and  excels  him  greatly  in  tenderness.  Few 
poets,  indeed,  are  more  tender  and  moving  than  Racine.  His  Phae- 
dra, his  Andromaque,  his  Athalie,  and  his  Mithridate,  are  excellent 
dramatic  performances,  and  do  no  small  honour  to  the  French  stage. 
His  language  and  versification  are  uncommonly  beautiful.  Of  all 
the  French  authors,  he  appears  to  me  to  have  most  excelled  in  poet- 
ical style ;  to  have  managed  their  rhyme  with  the  greatest  advantage 
and  facility,  and  to  have  given  it  the  most  complete  harmony.  Vol- 
taire has,  again  and  again,  pronounced  Racine's  Athalie  to  be  the 
'  Chef  d'CEuvre'  of  the  French  stage.  It  is  altogether  a  sacred  dra- 
ma, and  owes  much  of  its  elevation  to  the  majesty  of  religion,  but 
it  is  less  tender  and  interesting  than  Andromaque. 

Racine  has  formed  two  of  his  plays  upon  plans  of  Euripides.  In 
the  Phaedra  he  is  extremely  successful;  but  not  so,in  my  opinion,  in 
the  Iphigenie;  where  he  has  degraded  the  ancient  characters,  by 


LECT.  xlvi.J  FRENCH  TRAGEDY.  529 

unseasonable  gallantry       Achilles  is  a  French  lever ;  and  Eriphile,  a 
modern  lady.* 

Voltaire,  in  several  of  his  tragedies,  is  inferior  to  none  of  his 
predecessors.  In  one  great  article,  he  has  outdone  them  all:  in  the 
delicate  and  interesting  situations  which  he  has  contrived  to  intro- 
duce. In  these  lie  his  chief  strength.  He  is  not,  indeed,  exempt 
from  the  defects  of  the  other  French  tragedians,  of  wanting  force, 
and  of  being  sometimes  too  long  and  declamatory  in  his  speeches; 
but  his  characters  are  drawn  with  spirit,  his  events  are  striking,  and 
inhis  sentiments  there  is  muchelevation.  His  Zayre,  Alzire,Merope, 
and  Orphan  of  China,  are  four  capital  tragedies,  and  deserve  the 
highest  praise.  What  one  might  perhaps  not  expect,  Voltaire  is,  in 
the  strain  of  his  sentiments,  the  most  religious,  and  the  most  moral, 
of  all  tragic  poets. 

Though  the  musical  dramas  of  Metastasio  fulfil  not  the  character 


*The  characters  of  Corneille  and  Racine  are  happily  contrasted  with  each  other, 
ic  the  following  beautiful  lines  of  a  French  poet,  which  will  gratify  several  readers' 

CORNEILLE. 

Ilium  nobilibus  majestas  evehit  alis 
Venice  tangentem  nubes:  stant  ordine  longo 
Magnanimi  circum  heroes,  fulgentibus  omnes 
Induti  trabeis;  Polyeuctus,  Cinna,  Stleucus, 
Et  Cidus,  et  rugis  signatus  Horatius  ora. 

RACINE. 

^  Hunc  c'.rcumvolitat  penna  alludente  Cupido, 

Vinculo,  triumphatis  insternens  florea  scenis; 
Colligit  heec  mollis  genius,  levibusque  catenis 
Heroas  stringit  dociles,  Phyrrhosque,  Titosque, 
Pelidasque,  ac  Hippolvtos,  qui  sponle  sequuntur 
Serviti"*n,  facilesque  ferunt  in  vincula  palmas. 
Ingentes  nimirum  animos  Cornelius  ingens, 
Et  quales  habet  ipse,  suis  heroibus  afllat 
Sublimes  census;  vox  olli  mascula,  magnum  os, 
Nee  mortale  sonans.     Rapido  fluit  impetu  vena, 
Vena  Sophocleis  non  inficianda  fluentis. 
Racinius  Gallis  hand  visos  ante  tl.eatris 
Mollior  ingenio  teneros  induxil  amores. 
Magnanimos  quamvis  sensus  sub  pectore  verset 
Agrippina,  licet  Romano  robore  Burrhus 
Polleat,  et  inagni  generosa  superbia  Fori 
Non  semel  eniteat,  tamen  esse  ad  mollia  naturn 
Credideris  vatem  ;  vox  olli  mellea,  lonis 
S[iir.tus  est;  nou  ille  animis  vim  concitus  infert, 
Et  ccecos  anim 01  um  aditus  rimatur,  et  imis 
Meutibus  occu'.tos;  siren  prnelrabilis,  ictus 
Insimians,  palpando  fetit,  Iwditque  placendo. 
Vena  fluit  facili  non  intermissa  nitote, 
Nee  rapidos  semper  volvit  cum  murmure  flucrui, 
Agmine  sed  leni  ll.u'iat.     Sen  gramina  lambit 
Rivnlug,  Pt  aeeo  per  prata  virentia  lapsu, 
Aufugiens,  tacita  fluit  iudeprensns  arena; 
Flore  micanl  ripne  illimes;  hue  vulgus  amantum 
Convolat,  et  lacrvinis  auget  rivalibus  undas  : 
Singultus  undre  refpiunt,  gemitusque  sonoros 
Ingeminant,  molli  gemitus  imitante  susurio. 

Templum  Trairadire,  per  Fr.  Marsy,  e  S'vW'***  *e*a 

67 


530  ENGLISH  TRAGEDY.  [lect.  xlvi 

of  just  and  regular  tragedies,  they  approach  however  so  near  to  it,  ano. 
possess  so  much  merit,  that  it  would  be  unjust  to  pass  them  over 
without  notice.  For  the  elegance  of  style,  the  charms  of  lyric  po- 
etry, and  the  beauties  of  sentiment,  they  are  eminent.  They  abound 
in  well  contrived  and  interesting  situations.  The  dialogue,  by  its 
closeness  and  rapidity,  carries  a  considerable  resemblance  to  that  of 
the  ancient  Greek  tragedies;  and  is  both  more  animated  and  more 
natural,  than  the  long  declamation  of  the  French  theatre.  But  the 
shortness  of  the  several  dramas,  and  the  intermixture  of  so  much 
lyric  poetry  as  belongs  to  this  sort  of  composition,  often  occasions 
the  course  of  the  incidents  to  be  hurried  on  too  quickly,  and  pre- 
vents that  consistent  display  of  characters,  and  that  full  preparation 
of  events,  which  are  necessary  to  give  a  proper  verisimilitude  to 
tragedy. 

It  only  now  remains  to  speak  of  the  state  of  tragedy  in  Great 
Britain  ;  the  general  character  of  which  is,  that  it  is  more  animated 
and  passionate  than  French  tragedy,  but  more  irregular  and  incor- 
rect, and  less  attentive  to  decorum  and  to  elegance.  The  pathetic, 
it  must  always  be  remembered,  is  the  soul  of  tragedy.  The  English, 
therefore,  must  be  allowed  to  have  aimed  at  the  highest  species  of 
excellence;  though,  in  the  execution,  they  have  not  always  joined 
the  other  beauties  that  ought  to  accompany  the  pathetic. 

The  first  object  which  presents  itself  to  us  on  the  English  theatre, 
is  the  great  Shakspeare.  Great  he  may  be  justly  called,  as  the 
extent  and  force  of  his  natural  genius,  both  for  tragedy  and  come- 
dy, are  altogether  unrivalled.*  But,  at  the  same  time,  it  is  genius 
shooting  wild  ;  deficient  in  just  taste,  and  altogether  unassisted  by 
knowledge  or  art.  Long  has  he  been  idolized  by  the  British  nation  ■ 
much  has  been  said,  and  much  has  been  written  concerning  him-; 
criticism  has  been  drawn  to  the  very  dregs,  in  commentaries  upon 
his  words  and  witticisms ;  and  yet  it  remains,  to  this  clay,  in  doubt, 
whether  his  beauties,  or  his  faults,be  greatest.  Admirable  scenes, 
and  passages  without  number,  there  are  in  his  plays;  passages  be- 
yond what  are  to  be  found  in  any  other  dramatic  writer;  but  there 
is  hardly  any  one  of  his  plays  which  can  be  called  altogether  a  good 
one,  or  which  can  be  read  with  uninterrupted  pleasure  from  begin- 
ning to  end.  Besides  extreme  irregularities  in  conduct,  and  grotesque 
mixtures  of  serious  and  comic  in  one  piece,  we  are  often  interrupted 
by  unnatural  thoughts,  harsh  expressions,  a  certain  obscure  bombast, 
and  a  play  upon  words,  which  he  is  fond  of  pursuing;  and  these 
interruptions  to  our  pleasure  too  frequently  occur,  on  occasions 

*  The  character  which  Dryden  has  drawn  of  Shakspeare  is  not  only  just,  but  uncom- 
monly elegant  and  happy.  '  He  was  the  man,  who  of  all  modern,  and  perhaps  ancient 
poets,  had  the  largest  and  most  comprehensive  soul.  All  the  images  of  nature  were 
still  present  to  him,  and  he  drew  them  not  laboriously,  but  luckily.  When  he  describes 
any  thing,  you  more  than  see  it ;  you  feel  it  too.  They  who  accuse  him  of  wanting  learn- 
ing, give  him  the  greatest  commendation.  He  was  naturally  learn*"1  H-  ueeded 
not  the  spectacles  of  books  to  read  nature.  He  looked  inward,  aiivi  rounu  ner  there. 
I  cannot  sav  he  is  every  where  alike.  Were  he  so,  1  should  do  him  injury,  to  compare 
him  to  the  greatest  of  mankind.  He  is  many  times  flat  and  insipid  ;  his  comic  wit  dege- 
nerating into  clenches;  his  serious  swelling  into  bombast.  But  he  is  always  great,  when 
some  great  occasion  is  ptesented  to  him.'  Df.ydes's  Essay  on  Dramatic  Poetry 


lj!ct.  xlvi.J  ENGLISH  TRAGEDY.  53* 

when  we  would  least  wish  to  meet  with  them.  All  these  faults* 
however,  Shakspeare  redeems,  by  two  of  the  greatest  excellencies 
which  any  tragic  poet  can  possess;  his  lively  and  diversified  paint- 
ings of  character;  his  strong  and  natural  expressions  of  passion. 
These  are  his  two  chief  virtues;  on  these  his  merit  rests.  Not- 
withstanding his  many  absurdities,  all  the  while  we  are  reading 
his  plays,  we  find  ourselves  in  the  midst  of  our  fellows;  we  meet 
with  men,  vulgar  perhaps  in  their  manners,  coarse  or  harsh  in 
their  sentiments,  but  still  they  are  men;  they  speak  with  human 
voices,  and  are  actuated  by  human  passions;  we  are  interested  in 
what  they  say  or  do,  because  we  feel  that  they  are  of  the  same  na- 
ture with  ourselves.  It  is  therefore  no  matter  of  wonder,  that  from 
the  more  polished  and  regular,  but  more,  cold  and  artificial  perform- 
ances of  other  poets,  the  public  should  return  with  pleasure  to 
such  warm  and  genuine  representations  of  human  nature.  Shak- 
speare possesses  likewise  the  merit  of  having  created,  for  himself,  a 
sort  of  world  of  preternatural  beings.  His  witches,  ghosts,  fairies, 
and  spirits  of  all  kinds,  are  described  with  such  circumstances  of 
awful  and  mysterious  solemnity,  and  speak  a  language  so  peculiar  to 
themselves,  as  strongly  to  affect  the  imagination.  His  two  master- 
pieces, and  in  which,  in  my  opinion,  the  strength  of  his  genius  chiefly 
appears,  are,  Othello  and  Macbeth.  With  regard  to  his  historical 
plays,  they  are,  properly  speaking,  neither  tragedies  nor  comedies; 
but  a  peculiar  species  of  dramatic  entertainment,  calculated  to  de- 
scribe the  manners  of  the  times  of  which  he  treats,  to  exhibit  the 
principal  characters,  and  to  fix  our  imagination  on  the  most  interest- 
ing events  and  revolutions  of  our  own  country.* 

After  the  age  of  Shakspeare,  we  can  produce  in  the  English  Ian 
guage  several  detached  tragedies  of  considerable  merit.  But  we 
have  not  many  dramatic  writers  whose  whole  works  are  entitled 
either  to  particular  criticism,  or  very  high  praise.  In  the  tragedies 
of  Dryden  and  Lee,  there  is  much  fire,  but  mixed  with  much  fustian 
and  rant.  Lee's  Theodosius,  or  the  '  Force  of  Love,'  is  the  best 
of  his  pieces,  and,  in  some  of  the  scenes,  does  not  want  tenderness 
and  warmth,  though  romantic  in  the  plan,  and  extravagant  in  the  sen- 
timents. Otway  was  endowed  with  a  high  portion  of  the  tragic 
spirit;  which  appears  to  great  advantage  in  his  two  principal  trage- 
dies, w  The  Orphan,'  and  <  Venice  Preserved.'  In  these,  he  is  perhaps 
too  tragic ;  the  distresses  being  so  deep,  as  to  tear  and  overwhelm  tl  e 
mind.  He  is  a  writer,  doubtless,  of  genius  and  strong  passion;  but 
at  the  same  time,  exceedingly  gross  and  indelicate.  No  tragedies  are 
less  moral  than  those  of  Otway.  There  are  no  generous  or  noble 
sentiments  in  them;  but  a  licentious  spirit  often  discovers  itself. 
He  is  the  very  opposite  of  the  French  decorum  ;  and  has  contrived 
to  introduce  obscenity  and  indecent  allusions,  into  the  midst  of  deep 
tragedy. 

*  See  an  excellent  defence  of  Shakspeare's  Historical  Plays,  and  several  just  obscr- 
ritions  on  his  peculiar  excellencies  as  a  tragic  poet,  in  Mrs.  Montague's  Essay  on  thfl 
^Tilings  and  genius  of  Shakspeare. 


532  ENGLISH  TRAGEDY.  [lect.  xlvi 

Rowe's  tragedies  make  a  contrast  to  those  of  Otvvay.  He  is  lull 
of  elevated  and  mora)  sentiments.  The  poetry  is  often  good,  and 
the  language  always  pure  and  elegant ;  but  in  most  of  his  plays,  he  is 
too  cold  and  uninteresting;  and  flowery  rather  than  tragic.  Two, 
however,  he  has  produced,  which  deserve  to  be  exempted  from  this 
censure,  Jane  Shore  and  the  Fair  Penitent;  in  both  of  which  there 
are  so  many  tender  and  truly  pathetic  scenes,  as  to  render  them 
justly  favourites  of  the  public. 

Dr.  Young's  Revenge,  is  a  play  which  discovers  genius  and  fire; 
but  wants  tenderness,  and  turns  too  much  upon  the  shocking  and 
direful  passions.  In  Congreve's  Mourning  Bride,  there  are  some 
fine  situations,  and  much  good  poetry.  The  two  first,  acts  are  ad- 
mirable. The  meeting  of  Almeria  with  her  husband  Osmyn,  in  the 
tomb  of  Adselmo,  is  one  of  the  most  solemn  and  striking  situations 
to  be  found  in  any  tragedy.  The  defects  in  the  catastrophe,  I  point- 
ed out  in  the  last  lecture.  Mr.  Thomson's  tragedies  are  too  full  of  stiff 
morality,  which  renders  them  dull  and  formal.  Tancred  and  Sigis- 
munda,  far  excels  the  rest;  and  for  the  plot,  the  characters,  and 
sentiments,  justly  deserves  a  pl?.ce  among  the  best  English  tragedies. 
Of  later  pieces,  and  of  living  authors,  it  is  not  my  purpose  to  treat. 

Upon  the  whole;  reviewing  the  tragic  compositions  of  different 
nations,  the  following  conclusions  arise.  A  Greek  tragedy  is  the  re- 
lation of  any  distressful  or  melancholy  incident;  sometimes  the  ef- 
fect of  passion  or  crime,  oftener  of  the  decree  of  the  gods,  simply 
exposed ;  without  much  variety  of  parts  or  events,  but  naturally  and 
beautifully  set  before  us;  heightened  by  the  poetry  of  the  chorus. 
A  French  tragedy,  is  a  series  of  artful  and  refined  conversations, 
founded  upon  a  variety  of  tragical  and  interesting  situations  ;  carried 
on  with  little  action  and  vehemence;  but  with  much  poetical  beauty, 
and  high  propriety  and  decorum.  An  English  tragedy  is  the  com- 
bat of  strong  passions,  set  before  us  in  all  their  violence  ;  producing 
deep  disasters;  often  irregularly  conducted;  abounding  in  action; 
and  filling  the  spectators  with  grief.  The  ancient  tragedies  were 
more  natural  and  simple  ;  the  modern  are  more  artful  and  complex. 
Among  the  French,  there  is  more  correctness;  among  the  English 
more  fire.  Andromaque  and  Zayre,  soften;  Othello  and  Venice 
Preserved,  rend  the  heart.  It  deserves  remark,  that  three  of  the 
greatest  masterpieces  of  the  French  tragic  theatre,  turn  wholly  up- 
on religious  subjects:  the  Athalie  of  Racine,  the  Polyeucte  of  Cor- 
neille,  an  t  the  Zayre  of  Voltaire.  The  first  is  founded  upon  a  his- 
torical passage  of  the  Old  Testament ;  in  the  other  two,  the  distress 
arises  from  the  zeal  and  attachment  of  the  principal  personages  to 
the  Christain  faith;  and  in  all  the  three,  the  authors  have,  with 
much  propriety,  availed  themselves  of  the  majesty  which  may  be 
derived  from  religious  ideas. 


(  532  a  ) 


QUESTIONS. 


Having  treated  of  the  dramatic  ac- 
uon  in  tragedy,  tc  treat  of  what  does 
our  author  next  proceed  ?  What  has 
Deen  thought  by  some  critics?  From 
jvh.it  does  it  appear  that  this  is  more 
specious  than  solid  ?  What  does  the 
dignity  of  tragedy,  indeed,  require? 
Whnt  effect  may  their  high  rank  pro- 
duce ;  but  to  what  does  it  conduce  very 
little  ;  and  why?  What  illustration  of 
this  remark  follows?  Of  the  moral  cha- 
racters of  the  persons  represented,  what 
is  observed  ?  What,  in  the  conduct  of 
tragedy,  demands  the  poet's  greatest 
attention?  For  this  end,  what  is  not 
necessary  ;  and  why  ?  But,  withal,  of 
what  must  the  author  beware ;  and  for 
what  reason  ?  How  must  the  stings  of 
the  remorse  of  guilt,  ever  be  represent- 
ed ?  What  is  Aristotle's  opinion  on  the 
characters  proper  for  tragedy;  and 
why  ?  Of  mixed  characters,  what  is 
observed  ?  T)f such  persons,  what  is  far- 
ther remarked  ;  but  when  is  it  always 
more  instructive;  and  why?  Upon 
these  principles,  at  what  is  our  author 
surprised  ?  What  is  the  subject  of  the 
GSdipus ;  what  does  it  excite ;  and  of  it, 
as  it  is  conducted  by  Sophocles,  what  is 
observed  ?  Of  the  subjects  of  the  an- 
cient Greek  tragedies,  what  must  be 
acknowledged  ?  With  what  were  they 
too  much  mixed?  What  instances  of 
this  kind  are  mentioned  ?  Though  ma- 
ny moral  sentiments  occurred  in  the 
course  of  the  drama,  yet  what  remark 
follows?  How  has  modern  tragedy 
aimed  at  a  higher  object  ?  To  illus- 
trate this  remark,  what  instances  are 
mentioned,  and  what  is  said  of  them  ? 
In  tragedy,  what  passion  has  most  oc- 
cupied the  modern  stage  ?  Where  was 
it,  in  a  manner,  wholly  unknown? 
How  is  this  illustrated  ?  To  what  was 
this  owing  ?  What  remark  follows ; 
and  on  this  subject,  what  is  the  opinion 
of  Voltaire  ?  To  what  does  the  mixing 
of  it  perpetually  with  all  the  important 
events  that  belong  to  the  traffic  staere, 
tend  ?  Of  what  are  the  Douglas  of  Mr. 
Home,  &c.  a  sufficient  proof?  On  this 
subject,  what  seems  to  be  clear  ?  What 
sort  of  love  ought  it  to  be  ;  and  why  ? 
In  what  plays  are  the  bad  effects  of 
his  sufficiently  conspicuous?  After  the 
ragic  poet  has  arranged  his  subject, 
And  chosen  his  personages,  what  is  the 
next  thing  to  which  he  must  attend  ? 
Of  the  necessity  of  observing  this  gene- 
ral rule,  what  is  observed  and  why 
4H 


not  ?  As  tragedy  is  the  region  :>f  pas» 
sion,  what  follows?  What  is  a  preroga- 
tive of  genius  given  to  few  ?  What  does 
it  require  ;  and  why  ?  How  is  this  re- 
mark illustrated  ?  Of  a  person  in  what 
situation,  is  this  the  language?  Yet 
what  remark  follows  ?  What  instance 
have  we  of  it  ?  Repeat  the  passage.  Oi 
it,  what  is  observed?  How  does  the 
person  who  is  himself  concerned,  speak 
on  such  an  occasion?  Such  representa- 
tions of  passion  in  poetry,  are  no  better 
than  what  ?  On  some  other  occasions, 
into  what  are  poets  too  apt  to  run  ;  and 
why  ?  By  what  examples  is  this  re- 
mark illustrated  ;  and  in  such  passages, 
what  do  we  see  ?  What  is  the  charac- 
ter of  language  spoken  under  the  in- 
fluence of  real  passion  ?  In  the  senti- 
ments of  real  passion,  with  what  do  we 
never  meet;  and  why?  Of  passion, 
what  is  farther  observed  ?  When  we 
examine  the  French  tragedians  by 
these  principles,  what  do  we  find  ;  and 
what  remark  follows?  How  is  this  il- 
lustrated ?  Of  Sophocles  and  Euripides, 
what  is  here  observed;  and  also  of 
Shakspeare  ?  To  what  scene  does  our 
author  refer,  in  support  of  this  remark? 
What  is  said  of  it  ?  With  regard  to 
moral  sentiments  and  reflections  in  tra- 
gedies, what  is  observed;  and  why? 
With  what  tragedies  is  this  remarkably 
the  case ;  and  what  are  they  ?  Of  what, 
however,  is  our  author  not  of  opinion  ; 
and  why  ?  When  do  serious  and  moral 
reflections  naturally  occur  to  persons  of 
all  descriptions  ?  Why  is  almost  every 
human  being,  then,  disposed  to  be  seri- 
ous; and,  therefore,  what  follows? 
What  instance  is  here  given  to  illus- 
trate this  remark ;  and  of  Addison's 
Cato,  what  is  here  observed?  What 
should  the  style  and  versification  oi 
tragedy  be  ?  Why  is  our  blank  verse 
happily  suited  to  this  purpose?  Why 
should  monotony,  above  all  things  be 
avoided  by  a  tragic  poet  ?  Into  wnat 
should  he  not  sink ;  and  what  should 
his  style  always  have?  What  should 
it  assume  ?  What  is  one  of  the  areatesl 
misfortunes  of  French  tragedy?  What 
requires  this ;  and  why  ?  What  is  its 
effect?  What  does  Voltaire  maintain? 
What  does  he  say?  Of  this  idea,  what 
is  observed?  With  regard  tc  what,  need 
nothing  be  said ;  only  that  they  were 
what  ? 

Having  thus  treated  of  all  the  diffe- 
rent kinds  of  tragedy,  with  what  does 


532  6 


QUESTIONS. 


[LECT.  XLYi 


our  author  conclude  the  subject.  ?  Re- 
pea*  the  distinguishing  characters  of 
the  Greek  tragedy,  which  have  been 
mentioned.  From  what  were  most  of 
their  plots  taken  ?  What  instances  are 
given?  What  does  iEschylus  exhibit? 
What  are  his  characteristics  ?  Why  is 
he  obscure  and  difficult  ?  With  what 
doe.-i  he  abound ;  what  does  he  possess ; 
and  in  what  does  he  delight  ?  What 
are  beautiful  in  their  kind,  and  strongly 
expressive  of  his  jrenius?  What  is  said 
of  Sophocles?  What  evidence  have  we 
or*  the  eminence  of  his  descriptive  ta- 
lent? How  does  he  compare  with  Eu- 
ripides ?  What  merits  do  they  both  pos- 
sess, as  tragic  poets?  Of  theatrical 
representation  on  the  stages  of  Greece 
and  Rome,  what  is  observed  ?  What 
has  the  Abbe  du  Bos  proved  ?  What 
has  he  farther  attempted  to  prove  ?  Of 
the  actors  in  tragedy,  what  is  obser- 
ved ?  What  is  said  of  these  masks  ? 
When  different  emotions  were  to  ap- 
pear in  the  same  person,  how  was  the 
change  expressed  ?  With  what  disad- 
vantages was  this  contrivance  attend- 
ed ?  In  defence  of  them,  what,  at  the 
same  time,  must  be  remembered  ?  In 
whose  hands  has  tragedy  appeared 
with  much  lustre  and  dignity?  How 
have  they  improved  upon  the  ancients? 
In  what  have  they  studied  to  imitate 
them  ?  To  what  are  they  attentive  ? 
In  them,  what  is  an  English  taste  most 
apt  to  censure?  How  is  this  defect  il- 
lustrated? What,  does  Voltaire  admit; 
and  what  does  he  very  candidly  give 
as  his  judgment?  By  what  is  Cor- 
neille  distinguished?  Of  his  genius, 
what  is  observed ;  and  why  ?  How  does 
he  compare  with  other  French  trage- 
dians? What,  did  he  write ;  and  in 
what,  also,  did  he  resemble  them? 
What  has  he  composed ;  and  which 
are  his  best  ?  How  does  Racine  com- 
pare with  Corneille?  Of  his  tenderness, 
what  is  observed ;  and  of  what  per- 
formances, what  is  remarked  ?  What 
is  said  of  his  language  and  versifica- 
tion ?  In  what  has  he  excelled  all  the 
French  au'hors?  What  evidence  of 
this  is  given ;  and  what  is  said  of  it  ? 
Upon  whose  plans  has  Racine  formed 
two  ol  nis  plays ;  and  of  them,  what  is 
remarked  ?  Of  Voltaire,  what  is  obser- 
ved ?  In  what  has  he  outdone  them 
all  ?  From  what  is  he  not  exempt ;  but 
how  are  his  characters  drawn  ?  Which 
are  four  excellent  tragedies  ?  In  the 
strains  of  his  sentiments,  what  do  we 
unexpectedly  find?  What  is  said  of 


the  musical  dramas  of  Metastasiot 
For  what  are  they  eminent ;  and  m 
what  do  they  abound  ?  Of  the  dialogue, 
what  is  observed?  What  remark  fol- 
lows ?  To  speak  of  what  do  we  now  pro- 
ceed ;  and  what  is  their  general  cha- 
racter ?  As  the  pathetic  is  the  soul  of 
tragedy,  what  follows  ?  What  is  the 
first  object  which  presents  itself  to  us, 
on  the  English  theatre?  What  are 
his  merits ;  and  what  are  his  faults  ? 
What  are  his  two  chief  virtues?  How 
is  this  illustrated  ?  What,  therefore,  is 
no  matter  of  wonder?  What  merit 
does  Shakspeare  likewise  possess? 
How  is  this  illustrated  ?  Which  are  his 
two  masterpieces?  Of  his  historical 
plays,  what  is  observed  ?  After  the  age 
of  Shakspeare,  what  can  we  produce ; 
but  what  have  we  not  ?  Of  Dryden  and 
Lee,  and  of  Lee's  Theodosius,  what  is 
observed?  With  what  was  Otway  en- 
dowed, and  where  does  it  appear  to 
great  advantage?  Of  theae,  what  is 
farther  remarked  ?  What  does  he  pos- 
sess? In  what  does  his  want  of  morali- 
ty appear  ;  of  what  is  he  the  opposite  ; 
and  what  has  he  contrived  to  do  ?  How 
do  Rowe's  tragedies  compare  with  those 
of  Otway  ?  To  this  remark,  what  twc 
exceptions  are  there  ;  and  what  is  said 
of  them  ?  What  is  said  of  Dr.  Young's 
Revenue ;  and  of  Congreve's  Mourn 
ing  Bride  ?  Of  Mr.  Thompson's  trage- 
dies, what  is  remarked  ?  Which  far  ex- 
cels the  rest,  and  what  is  said  of  it  ? 
On  reviewing  the  tragic  compositions 
of  different  nations,  what  conclusions 
arise  ?  In  what  did  the  ancients  and  in 
what  do  the  moderns  excel  ?  How  do 
the  French  and  the  English  compare ; 
and  what  illustration  follows?  What 
deserves  remark ;  and  on  what  are  they 
respectively  founded  ? 


!•' 


ANALYSIS. 

Tragedy. 

a.  The  characters. 

a.  Aristotle's  oDservaticr.3  en  them. 

b.  The  subjects  of  Greek  tragedies. 

c.  Love  pi  edouninant  on   the   modem 
-    stage. 

b.  The  sentiment?. 

a.  The  natural  language  ct  passion  to 

be  observed. 
6.  Moral  reflections  considered. 

c.  The  style  and  versification. 

a.  The  disadvantages  Df  Krenchrhym* 
Greek  tragedy. 

a.  JEschyiue — Sophocles — Euripides. 

b.  Peculiarities  in  the  representation. 
Fiench  tragedy. 

a.  Corneille — Racine — Voltaire. 

English  tragedy. 
a.  Shakspeare — Dryden — Otway,  &c, 

Tlic  conclusion. 


(  533  ) 

LECTURE  XLVII. 

COMEDY....GREEK  AND  ROMAN....FRENCH....ENGLISH 

COMEDY. 

Comedy  is  sufficiently  discriminated  from  tragedy,  by  its  general 
spirit  and  strain.  While  pity  and  terror,  and  the  other  strong  pas- 
sions,form  the  province  of  the  latter,  the  chief  or  rather  sole  instru- 
ment of  the  former  is  ridicule.  Comedy  proposes  for  its  object 
neither  the  great  sufferings  nor  the  great  crimes  of  men  ;  but  their 
follies  and  slighter  vices,  those  parts  of  their  character  which  raise 
in  beholders  a  sense  of  impropriety,  which  expose  them  to  be  cen- 
sured and  laughed  at  by  others,  or  which  render  them  troublesome 
in  civil  society. 

This  general  idea  of  comedy,  as  a  satirical  exhibition  of  the  im- 
proprieties and  follies  of  mankind,  is  an  idea  very  moral  and  useful. 
There  is  nothing  in  the  nature,  or  general  plan  of  this  kind  of  com- 
position, that  renders  it  liable  to  censure.  To  polish  the  manners 
of  men,  to  promote  attention  to  the  proper  decorums  of  social  be- 
haviour, and  above  all,  to  render  vice  ridiculous,  is  doing  real  service 
to  the  world.  Many  vices  might  be  more  successfully  exploded,  by 
employing  ridicule  against  them,  than  by  serious  attacks  and  argu- 
ments. At  the  same  time  it  must  be  confessed,  that  ridicule  is  an 
instrument  of  such  a  nature,  that  when  managed  by  unskilful,  or  im- 
proper hands,  there  is  hazard  of  its  doing  mischief,  instead  of  good, 
to  society.  For  ridicule  is  far  from  being,  as  some  have  maintained 
it  to  be,  a  proper  test  of  truth.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  apt  to  mis- 
lead, and  seduce,  by  the  colours  which  it  throws  upon  its  objects-, 
and  it  is  often  more  difficult  to  judge,  whether  these  colours  be  na- 
tural and  proper,  than  it  is  to  distinguish  between  simple  truth  and 
error.  Licentious  writers,  therefore,  of  the  comic  class,  have  too 
often  had  it  in  their  power  to  cast  a  ridicule  upon  characters  and  ob- 
jects which  did  not  deserve  it.  But  this  is  a  fault,  not  owing  to  the 
nature  of  comedy,  but  to  the  genius  and  turn  of  the  writers  of  it.  In 
the  hands  of  a  loose,  immoral  author,  comedy  will  mislead  and  cor- 
rupt ;  while,  in  those  of  a  virtuous  and  well-intentioned  one,  it  will 
be  not  only  a  gay  and  innocent,  but  a  laudable  and  useful  entertain- 
ment. French  comedy  is  an  excellent  school  of  manners;  while 
English  comedy  has  been  too  often  the  school  of  vice. 

The  rules  respecting  the  dramatic  action,  which  I  delivered  in  the 
first  bcture  upon  tragedy,  belong  equally  to  comedy  ;  and  hence, 
of  course,  our  disquisitions  concerning  it  are  shortened.  It  is  equally 
necessary  to  both  these  forms  of  dramatic  composition,  that  there 
be  a  proper  unity  of  action  and  subject,  that  the  unities  of  time  and 
place  be,  as  much  as  possible,  preserved  ;  that  is,  that  the  time  of 
the  action  be  brought  within  reasonable  bounds;  and  the  place  of 
the  action  never  changed,  at  least,  not  during  the  course  of  each 


534  COMEDY.  [lect.  xlvii 

act ;  that  the  several  scenes  or  successive  conversations  be  properly 
linked  together;  that  the  stage  be  never  totally  evacuated  till  the 
-ct  closes ;  and  that  the  reason  should  appear  to  us,  why  the  pe» 
sonages  who  fill  up  the  different  scenes,  enter  and  go  off  the  stage, 
at  the  time  when  they  are  made  to  do  so.  The  scope  of  all  these 
rules,  I  showed,  was  to  brhid  ihe  imitation  as  near  as  possible  to 
probability ;  which  is  always  necessary,  in  order  to  any  imitation  giv- 
ing us  pleasure.  This  reason  requires,  perhaps,  a  stricter  observance 
of  the  dramatic  rules  in  comedy,  than  in  tragedy.  For  the  action  of 
comedy  being  more  familiar  to  us  than  that  of  tragedy,  more  like 
what  we  are  accustomed  to  see  in  common  life,  we  judge  more  easi- 
ly of  what  is  probable,  and  are  more  hurt  by  the  want  of  it.  The 
probable  and  the  natural,  boih  in  the  conduct  of  the  story,  and  in 
the  characters  and  sentiments  of  the  persons  who  are  introduced,  are 
the  great  foundation,  it  must  always  be  remembered,  of  the  whole 
beauty  of  comedy. 

The  subjects  of  tragedy  are  not  limited  to  any  country,  or  to  any 
age.  The  tragic  poet  may  lay  his  scene  in  whatever  region  he 
pleases.  He  may  form  his  subject  upon  the  history,  either  of  his 
own,  or  of  a  foreign  country;  and  he  may  take  it  from  any  period 
that  is  agreeable  to  him,  however  remote  in  time.  The  reverse  of 
this  holds  in  comedy,  for  a  clear  and  obvious  reason.  In  the  great 
vices,  great  virtues,  and  high  passions,  men  of  all  countries  and  ages 
resemble  one  another;  and  are  therefore  equally  subjects  for  the  tra- 
gic muse.  But  those  decorums  of  behaviour,  those  lesser  discrimi- 
nations of  character,  which  afford  subject  for  comedy,  change  with 
the  differences  of  countries  and  times;  and  can  never  be  so  well  un- 
derstood by  foreigners,  as  by  natives.  We  weep  for  the  heroes  of 
Greece  and  Rome,  as  freely  as  we  do  for  those  of  our  own  country; 
but  we  are  touched  with  the  ridicule  of  such  manners  and  such  cha- 
racters only,  as  we  see  and  know ;  and  therefore  the  scene  and  subject 
of  comedy,  should  always  be  laid  in  o  ir  own  country,  and  in  our  own 
times.  The  comic  poet  who  aims  at  correcting  improprieties  and 
follies  of  behaviour,  should  study  'to  catch  the  manners  living  as 
they  rise.'  It  is  not  his  business  to  amuse  us  with  a  tale  of  the  last 
age,  or  with  a  Spanish  or  a  French  intrigue,  but  to  give  us  pictures 
taken  from  among  ourselves;  to  satirize  reigning  and  present  vices; 
*o  exhibit  to  the  age  a  faithful  copy  of  itself,  with  its  humours,  its 
follies,  and  its  extravagances.  It  is  only  by  laying  his  plan  in  this 
manner,  that  he  can  add  weight  and  dignity  to  the  entertainment 
which  he  gives  us.  Plautus,  it  is  true,  and  Terence,  did  not  follow 
this  rule.  They  laid  the  scene  of  their  comedies  in  Greece,  and 
adopted  the  Greek  laws  and  customs.  But  it  must  be  remembered, 
that  comedy  was,  in  their  age,  but  a  new  entertainment  in  Rome-, 
and  that  then  they  contented  themselves  with  imitating,  often  with 
translating  merely,  the  comedies  of  Menander,  and  ether  Greek 
writers.  In  after  times,  it  is  known  that  the  Romans  had  the  '  Co- 
moedia  Togata,'  or  what  was  founded  on  their  own  manners,  as  well 
as  the  'Comcedia  Palliata,'  or  what  was  taken  from  the  Greeks. 

Comedy  may  be  divided  into  two  kinds:  comedy  of  character. 


tECT.  xlvii.J  COMEDY.  535 

and  comedy  of  intrigue.  In  the  latter,  the  plot,  or  the  action  of 
the  play,  is  made  the  principal  object.  In  the  former,  the  display 
of  some  peculiar  character  is  chiefly  aimed  at;  the  action  is  contri- 
ved altogether  with  a  view  to  this  end.  and  is  treated  as  subordinate 
to  it.  The  French  abound  most  in  comedies  of  character.  Al! 
Moliere's  capital  pieces  are  of  this  sort;  his  Avare,  for  instance, 
Misanthrope,  Tartuffe;  and  such  are  Destouches'  also,  and  those  of 
the  other  chief  French  comedians.  The  English  abound  more  in 
comedies  of  intrigue.  In  the  plays  of  Congreve,  and,  in  general, 
in  all  our  comedies,  there  is  much  more  story,  more  bustle,  and  ac- 
tion, than  on  the  French  theatre. 

In  order  to  give  this  sort  of  composition  its  proper  advantage, 
these  two  kinds  should  be  properly  mixed  together.  Without  some 
interesting  and  well-conducted  story,  mere  conversation  is  apt  to  be- 
come insipid.  There  should  be  always  as  much  intrigue  as  to  give 
us  something  to  wish,  and  something  to  fear.  The  incidents  should 
so  succeed  one  another,  as  to  produce  striking  situations,  and  to  fix 
our  attention;  while  they  afford  at  the  same  time  a  proper  field  for 
the  exhibition  of  character.  For  the  poet  must  never  forget,  that 
to  exhibit  characters  and  manners,  is  his  principal  object.  The  ac- 
tion in  comedy,  though  it  demands  his  care,  in  order  to  render  it 
animated  and  natural,  is  a  less  significant  and  important  part  of  the 
performance,  than  the  action  in  tragedy:  as  in  comedy,  it  is  what 
men  say,  and  how  they  behave,  that  draws  our  attention,  rather  than 
what  they  suffer.  Hence  it  is  a  great  fault  to  overcharge  it  with  too 
much  intrigue;  and  those  intricate  Spanish  plots  that  were  fashion- 
able for  a  while,  carried  on  by  perplexed  apartments,  dark  entries, 
and  disguised  habits,  are  now  justly  condemned  and  laid  aside:  for 
oy  such  conduct,  the  main  use  of  comedy  was  lost.  The  attention 
of  the  spectators,  instead  of  being  directed  towards  any  display  of 
characters,  was  fixed  upon  the  surprising  turns  and  revolutions  of  the 
intrigue;  and  comedy  was  changed  into  a  mere  novel. 

In  the  management  of  characters,  one  of  the  most  common  faults 
of  comic  writers,  is  the  carrying  of  them  too  far  beyond  life.  Where- 
ever  ridicule  is  concerned,  it  is  indeed  extremely  difficult  to  hit  the 
precise  point  where  true  wit  ends,  and  buffoonery  begins.  When 
the  miser,  for  instance,  in  Plautus,  searching  the  person  whom  he 
suspects  for  having  stolen  his  casket,  after  examining  first  his  right 
hand,  and  then  his  left,  cries  out  *  Ostende  etiam  tertiam,'  <  show  me 
your  third  hand,'  (a  stroke  too  which  Moliere  has  copied  from  him) 
there  is  no  one  but  must  be  sensible  of  the  extravagance.  Certain 
degrees  of  exaggeration  are  allowed  to  the  comedian ;  but  there 
are  limits  set  to  it  by  nature  and  good  taste;  and  supposing  the  mi- 
ser to  be  ever  so  much  engrossed  by  his  jealousy  and  his  suspicions, 
it  is  impossible  to  conceive  any  man  in  his  wits  suspecting  another 
of  having  more  than  two  hands. 

Characters  in  comedy  ought  to  be  clearly  distinguished  from  one 
another;  but  the  artificial  contrasting  of  characters,  and  the  intro- 
ducing them  always  in  pairs,  and  by  opposites,  give  too  theatrical  anc' 


s 


536  COMEDY.  [lect.  xlvii. 

affected  an  air  to  the  piece.  This  is  become  too  common  a  resource 
of  comic  writers,  in  order  to  heighten  their  characters,  and  display 
.hem  to  more  advantage.  As  soon  as  the  violent  and  impatient  per 
son  arrives  upon  the  stage,  the  spectator  knows  tha*,  in  the  next 
scene,  he  is  to  be  contrasted  with  the  mild  and  good-natured  man ; 
or  if  one  of  the  lovers  introduced  be  remarkably  gay  and  airy,  we 
are  sure  that  his  companion  is  to  be  a  grave  and  serious  lover;  like 
Frankly  and  Bellamy,  Clarinda  and  Jacintha,  in  Dr.  Hoadly's  Sus- 
picious Husband.  Such  production  of  characters  by  pairs,  is  like 
the  employment  of  the  figure  antithesis  in  discourse,  which,  as  I  for- 
merly observed,  gives  brilliancy  indeed  upon  occasions,  but  is  too  ap- 
parently a  rhetorical  artifice.  In  every  sort  of  composition,  the  per- 
fection of  art  is  to  conceal  art.  A  masterly  writer  will,  therefore, 
give  us  his  characters,  distinguished  rather  by  such  shades  of  diversity 
as  are  commonly  found  in  society,  than  marked  with  such  strong  op 
positions,  as  are  rarely  brought  into  actual  contrast  in  any  of  the 
circumstances  of  life. 

The  style  of  comedy  ought  to  be  pure,  elegant,  and  lively;  very 
seldom  rising  higher  than  the  ordinary  tone  of  polite  conversation, 
and,  upon  no  occasion,  descending  into  vulgar,  mean,  and  gross  ex- 
pressions. Here  the  French  rhyme,  which  in  many  of  their  come- 
dies they  have  preserved,  occurs  as  an  unnatural  bondage.  Certain- 
ly, if  prose  belongs  to  any  composition  whatever,  it  is  to  that  which 
imitates  the  conversation  of  men  in  ordinary  life.  One  of  the  most 
difficult  circumstances  in  writing  comedy,  and  one, too,  upon  which 
the  success  of  it  very  much  depends,  is  to  maintain,  throughout,  a 
current  of  easy,  genteel,  unaffected  dialogue,  without  pertness  and 
flippancy;  without  too  much  studied  and  unseasonable  wit ;  without 
dulness  and  formality.  Too  few  of  our  English  comedies  are  dis- 
tinguished for  this  happy  turn  of  conversation;  most  of  them  are 
liable  to  one  or  other  of  the  exceptions  I  have  mentioned.  The 
Careless  Husband,  and,  perhaps,  we  may  add  the  Provoked  Husband, 
and  the  Suspicious  Husband,  seem  to  have  more  merit  than  most  of 
them,  for  easy  and  natural  dialogue. 

These  are  the  chief  observations  that  occur  to  me,  concerning  the 
general  principles  of  this  species  of  dramatic  writing,  as  distinguish- 
ed from  tragedy.  But  its  nature  and  spirit  will  be  still  better  under- 
stood, by  a  short  history  of  its  progress  ;  and  a  view  of  the  manner 
in  which  it  has  been  carried  on  by  authors  of  different  nations. 

Tragedy  is  generally  supposed  to  have  been  more  ancient  among 
the  Greeks  than  comedy.  We  have  fewer  lights  concerning  the 
origin  and  progress  of  the  latter.  What  is  most  probable  is,  that, 
like  the  other,  it  took  its  rise  accidentally  from  the  diversions  pecu- 
liar to  the  feast  of  Bacchus,  and  from  Thespis  and  his  cart:  till, by 
degrees,  it  diverged  into  an  entertainment  of  a  quite  different  na- 
ture from  solemn  and  heroic  tragedy.  Critics  distinguish  three 
stages  of  comedy  among  the  Greeks  ;  which  they  call  the  ancient, 
the  middle,  and  the  new. 

The  ancient  comedy  consisted  in  direct  and  avowed  satire  against 
particular  known  persons,  who  were  brought  upon  the  stage  H 


<.ect  xlvii.]  ANCIENT  COMEDY.  537 

name.  Of  this  nature  are  the  plays  of  Aristophanes.,  eleven  of 
which  are  still  extant;  plays  of  a  very  singular  nature,  and  wholly 
different  from  all  compositions  which  have,  since  that  age,  home 
the  name  of  comedy.  They  show  what  a  turbulent  and  licentious 
republic  that  of  Athens  was,  and  what  unrestrained  scope  the  Athe- 
nians gave  to  ridicule,  when  they  could  suffer  the  most  illustrious 
personages  of  their  state,  their  generals,  and  their  magistrates,  Cleon, 
Lamachus,  Nicias,  Alcibiades,  not  to  mention  Socrates  the  philoso- 
pher, and  Euripides  the  poet,  to  be  publicly  made  the  subject  of 
comedy.  Several  of  Aristophanes'  plays  are  wholly  political  satires 
upon  public  management,  and  the  conduct  of  generals  and  states- 
men, during  the  Peloponnesian  war.  They  are  so  full  of  political 
allegories  and  allusions,  that  it  is  impossible  to  understand  them  with- 
out a  considerable  knowledge  of  the  history  of  those  times.  They 
abound,  too,  with  parodies  of  the  great  tragic  poets,  particularly  oi 
Euripides;  to  whom  the  author  bore  much  enmity,  and  has  written 
two  comedies,  almost  wholly  in  order  to  ridicule  him. 

Vivaeity,  satire,  and  buffoonery,  are  the  characteristics  of  Aristo- 
phanes. Genius  and  force  he  displays  upon  many  occasions;  but 
his  performances,  upon  the  whole,  are  not  calculated  to  give  us  any 
high  opinion  of  the  Attic  taste  of  wit,  in  his  age.  They  seem,  indeed, 
to  have  been  composed  for  the  mob.  The  ridicule  employed  in 
them  is  extravagant ;  the  wit,  for  the  most  part,  buffoonish  and  farci- 
cal; the  personal  raillery,  biting  and  cruel;  and  the  obscenity  that 
reigns  in  them,  is  gross  and  intolerable.  The  treatment  given  by 
this  comedian,  to  Socrates  the  philosopher,  in  his  play  of 'The 
Clouds,'  is  well  known  ;  but  however  it  might  tend  to  disparage  So- 
crates in  the  public  esteem,  P.  Brumoy,  in  his  Theatre  Gree, 
makes  it  appear,  that  it  could  not  have  been,  as  is  commonly  sup- 
posed, the  cause  of  decreeing  the  death  of  that  philosopher,  which 
did  not  happen  till  twenty-three  years  after  the  representation  of 
Anstophanes'  Clouds.  There  is  a  chorus  in  Aristophanes'  plays; 
bui  altogether  of  an  irregular  kind.  It  is  partly  serious,  partly  comic; 
sometimes  mingles  in  the  action,  sometimes  addresses  the  spectators, 
deiends  the  author,  and  attacks  his  enemies. 

Soon  after  the  days  of  Aristophanes,  the  liberty  of  attacking  per- 
sons on  the  stage  by  name,  being  found  of  dangerous  consequence 
to  the  public  peace,  was  prohibited  by  law.  The  chorus  also  was, 
at  this  period,  banished  from  the  comic  theatre,  as  having  been  an 
instrument  of  too  much  license  and  abuse.  Then,  what  is  called 
the  middle  comedy,  took  rise  ;  which  was  no  other  than  an  elusion 
of  >.he  law.  Fictitious  names,  indeed,  were  employed;  but  living 
peuons  were  still  attacked  ;  and  described  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
be  sufficiently  known.  Of  these  comic  pieces,  we  have  no  remains. 
To  them  succeeded  the  new  comedy;  when  the  stage  being  oblig- 
ed «.o  desist  wholly  from  personal  ridicule,  became,  what  it  is  now, 
the  picture  of  manners  and  characters,  but  not  of  particular  persons. 
Menander  was  the  most  distinguished  author,  of  this  kind,  among 
the  Greeks ;  and  both  from  the  imitations  of  him  by  Terence,  and 

68 


5  SPANISH  COMEDY.  [lect.  xlvij 

the  account  given  of  him  by  Plutarch,  we  have  much  reason  to  re 
gret  that  his  writings  have  perished  ;  as  he  appears  to  have  reform- 
ed, in  a  very  high  degree,  the  public  taste,  and  to  have  set  the 
model  of  correct,  elegant,  and  moral  comedy. 

The  only  remains  which  we  now  have  of  the  new  comedy,  among 
the  ancients,  are  the  plays  of  Plautus  and  Terence ;  both  of  whom 
were  formed  upon  the  Greek  writers.  Plautus  is  distinguished  lor 
very  expressive  language,  and  a  great  degree  of  the  vis  comica 
As  he  wrote  in  an  early  period,  he  bears  several  marks  of  the  rude- 
ness of  the  dramatic  art  among  the  Romans,  in  his  time.  He 
opens  his  plays  with  prologues,  which  sometimes  pre-occupy  the  sub- 
ject of  the  whole  piece.  The  representation  too,  and  the  action  of 
the  comedy,  are  sometimes  confounded  •,  the  actor  departing  from 
his  character  and  addressing  the  audience.  There  is  too  much  low 
wit  and  scurrility  in  Plautus;  too  much  of  quaint  conceit,  and  play 
upon  words.  But  withal,  he  displays  more  variety  and  more  force 
than  Terence.  His  characters  are  always  strongly  marked,  though 
sometimes  coarsely.  His  Amphytrion  has  been  copied  both  by  Mo 
Here  and  by  Dryden;  and  his  Miser  also, (in  the  Audularia  )  is  the 
foundation  of  a  capital  play  of  Moliere's,  which  has  been  once  and 
again  imitated  on  the  English  stage.  Than  Terence,  nothing  can 
be  more  delicate,  more  polished,  and  elegant.  His  style  is  a  mode] 
of  the  purest  and  most  graceful  Latinity.  His  dialogue  is  alwaysde- 
cent  and  correct ;  and  he  possesses,  beyond  most  writers,  the  art  of 
relating  with  that  beautiful  picturesque  simplicity,  which  never 
fails  to  please.  His  morality  is,  in  general,  unexceptionable.  The 
situations  which  he  introduces  are  often  tender  and  interesting*,  and 
many  of  his  sentiments  touch  the  heart.  Hence,  he  may  be  consider- 
ed as  the  founder  of  that  serious  comedy,  which  has  of  late  years 
been  revived,  and  of  which  I  shall  have  occasion  afterwards  to  speak. 
If  he  fails  in  any  thing,  it  is  in  sprightliness  and  strength.  Both  in 
his  characters,  and  in  his  plots,  there  is  too  much  sameness  and  uni- 
formity throughout  all  his  plays;  he  copied  Menander,  and  is  said 
not  to  have  equalled  him.*  In  order  to  form  a  perfect  comic  author, 
an  union  would  be  requisite  of  the  spirit  and  fire  of  Plautus,  with  the 
grace  and  correctness  of  Terence. 

When  we  entei  un  the  view  of  modern  comedy,  one  of  the  first 
objects  which  presents  itself,  is,  the  Spanish  theatre,  which  has  been 
remarkably  fertile  in  dramatic  productions.  Lopez  de  Vega,  Guillin, 
and  Calderon,are  the  chief  Spanish  comedians.  Lopez  de  Vega,  who 
is  by  much  the  most  famous  of  them,  is  said  to  have  written  above  a 
"housand  plays;  but  our  surprise  at  the  number  of  his  productions 
will  be  diminished,  by  being  informed  of  their  nature.     From  the 

**  Julius  Caesar  has  given  us  his  opinion  of  Terence,  in  the  following  lines,,  which  ai« 
preserved  in  the  life  of  Terence,  ascribed  to  Suetonius  : 

Tu  quoque,  tu  in  suramis,  o  dimidiate  Menander, 

Poneris,  et  merito  puri  sermonis  amaior; 

Lenibus  atque  utinam  scriptis  adjuncta  foret  vis 

Comica,  ut  oequato  virtus  polleret  honore 

Cum  Graecis,  neque  in  hac  despectus  parte  Jaceres  ; 

Unum  hoc  maceror  et  doleo  tibi  deesse   Terenti  y 


lect.  xLvn.l  FRENCH  COMEDY.  53b 

account  which  M.  Perron  de  Castera,  a  French  writer,  gives  ol 
them, it  wouia  seem  that  our  Shakspeare  is  perfectly  a  regular  and 
methodical  author,  in  comparison  of  Lopez.  He  throws  aside  all 
regard  to  the  three  unities,  or  to  any  of  the  established  forms  of  dra- 
matic writing.  One  play  often  includes  many  years,  nay,  the  whole 
life  of  a  man.  The  scene,  during  the  first  act,  is  laid  in  Spain,  the 
next  in  Italy,  and  the  third  in  Africa.  His  plays  are  mostly  of  the 
historical  kind,  founded  on  the  annals  of  the  country;  and  they  are 
generally,  a  sort  of  tragic-comedies ;  or  a  mixture  of  heroic  speeches, 
serious  incidents,  war  and  slaughter,  with  much  ridicule  and  buf- 
foonery. Angels  and  gods,  virtues  and  vices,  christain  religion  and 
pagan  mythology,  are  all  frequently  jumbled  together.  In  short, 
they  are  all  plays  like  no  other  dramatic  compositions ;  full  of  the  ro- 
mantic and  extravagant.  At  the  same  time,  it  is  generally  admitted, 
that  in  the  works  of  Lopez  de  Vega,  there  are  frequent  marks  of 
genius,  and  much  force  of  imagination ;  many  well  drawn  charac- 
ters; many  happy  situations;  many  striking  and  interesting  surpri- 
ses ;  and  from  the  source  of  his  rich  invention,  the  dramatic  writers 
of  other  countries  are  said  to  have  frequently  drawn  their  materials. 
He  himself  apologizes  for  the  extreme  irregularity  of  his  composi- 
tion, from  the  prevailing  taste  of  his  countrymen,  who  delighted  in 
a  variety  of  events,  in  strange  and  surprising  adventures,  and  a  laby- 
rinth of  intrigues,  much  more  than  in  a  natural  and  regularly  con- 
ducted story. 

The  general  characters  of  the  French  comic  theatre  are,  that  it  is 
correct,  chaste,  and  decent.  Several  writers  of  considerable  note  it 
has  produced,  such  as  Regnard,  Dufresny,  Dancourt,  and  Marivaux  ; 
but  the  dramatic  author,  in  whom  the  French  glory  most,  and  whom 
they  justly  place  at  the  head  of  all  their  comedians,  is  the  famous 
Moliere.  There  is,  indeed,  no  author  in  all  the  fruitful  and  distin- 
guished age  of  Louis  XIV.  who  has  attained  a  higher  reputation  than 
Moliere,  or  who  has  more  nearly  reached  the  summit  of  perfection 
in  his  own  art,  according  to  the  judgment  of  all  the  French  critics. 
Voltaire  boldly  pronounces  him  to  be  the  most  eminent  comic  poet  of 
any  age  or  country  ;  nor,  perhaps,  is  this  the  decision  of  mere  par- 
tiality ;  for,taking  him  upon  the  whole,  I  know  none  who  deserves  to 
be  preferred  to  him.  Moliere  is  always  the  satirist  only  of  vice  or  folly. 
He  has  selected  a  great  variety  of  ridiculous  characters  peculiar  to  the 
times  in  which  he  lived,  and  he  has  generally  placed  the  ridicule  just- 
ly. He  possessed  strong  comic  powers  ;  he  is  full  of  mirth  and  plea- 
santry ;  and  his  pleasantry  is  always  innocent.  His  comedies  in  verse, 
such  as  the  Misanthrope  and  Tartufle,  are  a  kind  of  dignified  comedy, 
fn  which  vice  is  exposed  in  the  style  of  elegant  and  polite  satire.  In 
his  prose  comedies,  though  there  is  abundance  of  ridicule,  yet  there 
is  never  any  thing  found  to  offend  a  modest  ear,  or  to  throw  con 
tempt  on  sobriety  and  virtue.  Together  with  those  high  qualities, 
Moliere  has  also  defects  which  Voltaire,  though  his  professed  pa- 
negyrist, candidly  admits.  He  is  acknowledged  not  to  be  happy 
in  the  unravelling  of  his  plots.  Attentive  rm  re  to  the  strong  exhi 
bition  of  characters,  than  to  the  conduct  of  the  intrigue,  his  unravel 
41 


340  ENGLISH  COMEDY.  [lect  xlvii 

ling  is  frequently  brought  on  with  too  little  preparation,  and  in  an  im 
probable  manner.  In  his  verse  comedies,  he  is  sometimes  nrt  suffi 
ciently  interesting,  and  too  full  of  long  speeches;  and  in  his  more 
risible  pieces  in  prose,  he  is  censured  for  being  too  farcical.  Few 
writers,  however,  if  any,  ever  possessed  the  spirit,  or  attained  the  true 
end  of  comedy  so  perfectly,  upon  the  whole,  as  Moliere.  His  Tar- 
tuffe,  in  the  style  of  grave  comedy,  and  his  Avare,  in  the  gay,  are 
accounted  his  two  capital  productions. 

From  the  English  theatre,  we  are  naturally  led  to  expect  a  greater 
variety  of  original  characters  in  comedy,  and  bolder  strokes  of  wit 
and  humour,  than  are  to  be  found  on  any  other  modern  stage.  Hu- 
mour is,  in  a  great  measure,  the  peculiar  province  of  the  English  na- 
tion. The  nature  of  such  a  free  government  as  ours;  and  that  un- 
restrained liberty  which  our  manners  allow  to  every  man,  of  living 
entirely  after  his  own  taste,  afford  full  scope  to  the  display  of  singu- 
larity of  character,  and  to  the  indulgence  of  humour  in  all  its  forms. 
Whereas,  in  France,  the  influence  of  a  despotic  court,  the  more  es- 
tablished subordination  of  ranks,  and  the  universal  observance  of  the 
forms  of  politeness  and  decorum,  spread  a  much  greater  uniformity 
over  the  outward  behaviour  and  characters  of  men.  Hence,comedy 
has  a  more  ample  field,  and  can  flow  with  a  much  freer  vein,in  Bri- 
tain than  in  France.  But  it  is  extremely  unfortunate,  that,  togethei 
with  the  freedom  and  boldness  of  the  comic  spirit  in  Britain,  there 
should  have  been  joined  such  a  spirit  of  indecency  and  licentiousness, 
as  has  disgraced  English  comedy  beyond  that  of  any  nation,  since 
the  days  of  Aristophanes. 

The  first  age.  however,  of  English  comedy,  was  not  infected  by 
this  spirit.  Neither  the  plays  of  Shakspeare,  nor  those  of  Ben 
Jonson,  can  be  accused  of  immoral  tendency.  Shakspeare's  gen- 
eral character,  which  I  gave  in  the  last  lecture,  appears  with  as  great 
advantage  in  his  comedies  as  in  his  tragedies;  a  strong,  fertile,  and 
creative  genius,  irregular  in  conduct,  employed  too  often  in  amusing 
the  mob,  but  singularly  rich  and  happy  in  the  description  of  charac- 
ters and  manners.  Jonson  is  more  regular  in  the  conduct  of  his 
pieces,  but  stiff  and  pedantic;  though  not  destitute  of  dramatic  ge- 
nius. In  the  plays  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  much  fancy  and  in- 
vention appear,  and  several  beautiful  passages  may  be  found.  But, 
in  general,  they  abound  with  romantic  and  improbable  incidents,  with 
overcharged  and  unnatural  characters,  and  with  coarse  and  gross  al- 
lusions. These  comedies  of  the  last  age,  by  the  change  of  public 
.manners,  and  of  the  turn  of  conversation,  since  their  time,  are  now 
become  too  obsolete  to  be  very  agreeable.  For  we  must  observe, 
that  comedy,  depending  much  on  the  prevailing  modes  of  external 
behaviour,  becomes  sooner  antiquated  than  any  other  species  of  wri- 
ting; and,  when  antiquated,  it  seems  harsh  to  us,  and  loses  its  power 
of  pleasing.  This  is  especially  the  case  with  respect  to  the  comedies 
of  our  own  country,  where  the  change  of  manners  is  more  sensible 
and  striking,  than  in  any  foreign  production.  In  our  own  country, 
the  present  mode  of  bp'.iaviour  is  always  the  standard  of  politeness 
nd  whatever  departs  from  it  appears  uncouth ;  whereas,  in  the  writ 


I£ct.  xlvii.]  ENGLISH  C0MED1.  541 

ings  of  foreigners,  we  are  less  acquainted  with  any  standard  of  this 
kind,  and,  of  course,  are  less  hurt  by  the  want  of  ft.  Plautus  appear- 
ed more  antiquated  to  the  Romans,  in  the  age  of  Augustus,  than 
he  does  now  to  us.  It  is  a  high  proof  of  Shakspeare's  uncommon 
genius,  that,  notwithstanding  these  disadvantages,  his  character  of 
Falstaffis  to  this  day  admired,  and  his  "Merry  Wives  of  Windsor" 
read  with  pleasure. 

It  was  not  till  the  era  of  the  restoration  of  King  Charles  II.  that 
the  licentiousness  which  was  observed,  at  that  period,  to  infect  the 
court,  and  the  nation  in  general,  seized,  in  a  peculiar  manner,  upon 
comedy  as  its  province,  and,  for  almost  a  w'hole  century,  retained 
possession  of  it.  It  was  then,  first,  that  the  rake  became  the  pre- 
dominant character,  and,  with  some  exceptions,  the  hero  of  every 
comedy.  The  ridicule  was  thrown,  not  upon  vice  and  folly,  but 
much  more  commonly  upon  chastity  and  sobriety.  At  the  end  of 
the  play,  indeed,  the  rake  is  commonly,  in  appearance,  reformed, 
and  professes  that  he  is  to  become  a  sober  man ;  but  throughout  the 
play,  he  is  set  up  as  the  model  of  a  fine  gentleman;  and  the  agree- 
able impression  made  by  a  sort  of  sprightly  licentiousness,  is  left 
upon  the  imagination,  as  a  picture  of  the  pleasurable  enjoyment 
of  life ;  while  the  reformation  passes  slightly  away,  as  a  matter  of 
men  form.  To  what  sort  of  moral  conduct  such  public  entertain 
ments  as  these  tend  to  form  the  youth  of  both  sexes,  may  be  easily 
imagined.  Yet  this  was  the  spirit  which  prevailed  upon 
the  comic  stage  of  Great  Britain,  not  only  during  the  reign  of 
Charles  II.  but  throughout  the  reigns  of  King  William  and  Queen 
Anne,  and  down  to  the  days  of  king  George  II. 

Dryden  was  the  first  considerable  dramatic  writer  after  the  resto- 
ration; in  whose  comedies,  as  in  all  his  works,  there  are  found  many 
strokes  of  genius,  mixed  with  great  carelessness,  and  visible  marks 
of  hasty  composition.  As  he  sought  to  please  only,  he  went  along 
with  the  manners  of  the  times ;  and  has  carried  through  all  his  come- 
dies, that  vein  of  dissolute  licentiousness  which  was  then  fashiona- 
ble. In  some  of  them,  the  indecency  was  sc  gross,  as  to  occasion, 
even  in  that  age,  a  prohibition  of  being  brought  upon  the  stage.* 

Since  his  time,  the  writers  of  comedy,  of  greatest  note,  have  been 
Cibber,  Vanburgh,  Farquhar,  and  Congreve.  Cibber  has  written 
a  great  many  comedies;  and  though  in  several  of  them  there  be 
much  sprightliness,  and  a  certain  pert  vivacity  peculiar  to  him,  yet 
they  are  so  forced  and  unnatural  in  the  incidents,  as  to  have  gene- 
rally sunk  into  obscurity,  except  two  which  have  always  continued 
in  high  favour  with  the  public, '  The  Careless  Husband,'  and  'The 
Provoked  Husband.'  The  former  is  remarkable  for  the  polite  and 
easy  turn  of  the  dialogue;  and,  with  the  exception  of  one  indelicate 
scene,  is  tolerably  moral, too, in  the  conduct    and  in  the  tendency. 

*  | The  mirth  which  he  excites  in  comedy  will,  perhaps,  be  found  not  so  much  to 
arise  from  any  original  humour,  or  peculiarity  of  character,  nicely  distinguished,  and 
diligently  pursued,  as  from  incidents  and  circumstances,  artifices  and  surprises,  from 
jests  of  action,  rather  than  sentiment.  What  he  had  of  humorous  or  passionate,  he 
6eems  to  have  had,  not  from  nature,  but  from  other  poets:  if  not  always  a  plagiary 
yet,  at  least,  an  imitator.'  Johnson's  Life  of  Dryden 


542  ENGLISH  COMEDY.  [lect.  xlvh 

The  latter,  'The  Provoked  Husband,'  (which  was  the  joint  produc- 
tion of  Vanburgh  and  Cibber,)  is,  perhaps,  on  the  whole,  the  best 
comedy  in  the  English  language.  It  is  liable,  indeed,  to  one  critical 
objection,  of  having  a  double  plot;  as  the  incident  of  the  Wrong- 
head  family,  and  those  of  Lord  Townley's,  are  separate  and  inde- 
pendent of  each  other.  But  this  irregularity  is  compensated  by  the 
natural  characters,  the  fine  painting,  and  the  happy  strokes  of  hu- 
mour with  which  it  abounds.  We  are,  indeed,  surprised  to  find  so 
unexceptionable  a  comedy  proceeding  from  two  such  loose  authors  ; 
for,  in  its  general  strain,  it  is  calculated  to  expose  licentiousness  and 
folly ;  and  would  do  honour  to  any  stage. 

Sir  John  Vanburgh  has  spirit,  wit,  and  ease  ;  but  he  is,  to  the  last 
degree,  gross  and  indelicate.  He  is  one  of  the  most  immoral  of 
all  our  comedians.  His  '  Provoked  Wife'  is  full  of  such  indecent 
sentiments  and  allusions,  as  ought  to  explode  it  out  of  all  reputable 
society.  His  'Relapse'  is  equally  censurable ;  and  these  are  his 
only  two  considerable  pieces.  Congreve  is,  unquestionably,  a  wri- 
ter of  genius.  He  is  lively,  witty,  and  sparkling ;  full  of  character, 
and  full  of  action.  His  chief  fault,  as  a  comic  writer,  is,  that  he 
overflows  with  wit.  It  is  often  introduced  unseasonably;  and,  al- 
most every  where,  there  is  too  great  a  proportion  of  it  for  natural 
well-bred  conversation.*  Farquhar  is  a  light  and  gay  writer ;  less  cor- 
rect and  less  sparkling  than  Congreve  ;  but  he  has  more  ease  ;  and 
perhaps  fully  as  great  a  share  of  the  vis  comica.  The  two  best  and 
least  exceptionable  of  his  plays,  are  the  '  Recruiting  Officer,'  and  the 
'  Beaux  Stratagem.'  I  say,  the  least  exceptionable ;  for,  in  general, 
the  tendency  of  both  Congreve  and  Farquhar's  plays  is  immoral. 
Throughout  them  all,  the  rake,  the  loose  intrigue,  and  the  life  of 
licentiousness,  are  the  objects  continually  held  up  to  view  ;  as  if  the 
assemblies  of  a  great  and  polished  nation  could  be  amused  with  none 
but  vicious  objects.  The  indelicacy  of  these  writers,  in  the  female 
characters  which  they  introduce,  is  particularly  remarkable.  No- 
thing can  be  more  awkward  than  their  representations  of  a  woman 
of  virtue  and  honour.  Indeed,  there  are  hardly  any  female  charac- 
ters in  their  plays  except  two  :  women  of  loose  principles  ;  or,  when 
a  virtuous  character  is  attempted  to  be  drawn,  women  of  affected 
manners. 

The  censure  which  I  have  now  passed  upon  these  celebrated  co- 
medians, is  far  from  being  overstrained  or  severe.  Accustomed  to 
the  indelicacy  of  our  own  comedy,  and  amused  with  the  wit  and 
humour  of  it,  its  immorality  too  easily  escapes  our  observation. 
But  all  foreigners,  the  French  especially,  who  are  accustomed  to  a 
better  regulated,  ar»d  more  decent  stage,  speak  of  it  with  surprise 
and  astonishment.  Voltaire,  who  is,  assuredly,  none  of  the  most 
austere  moralists,  plumes  himself  not  a  little  upon  the  superior  bien- 


*  Dr.  Johnson  says  of  him,  in  his  Life,  that '  his  personages  are  a  kind  of  intellectna. 
gladiators;  every  sentence  is  to  ward,  or  to  strike;  the  contest  of  smartness  is  never 
inteimitted  ;  his  wit  is  a  meteor,  playitigto  and  fro,  with  alternate  corruscations.' 


lect.  xlvii.J  ENGLISH  COMEDY.  543 

stance  of  the  French  theatre  ;  and  says,  that  the  language  of  Eng 
lish  comedy  is  the  language  of  debauchery,  not  of  politeness.  M. 
Moralt,  in  his  letters  upon  the  French  and  English  nations,  ascribes 
the  corruption  of  manners  in  London  to  comedy,  as  its  chief  cause. 
Their  comedy,  he  says,  is  like  that  of  no  other  country;  it  is  the 
school  in  which  the  youth  of  both  sexes  familiarize  themselves  with 
vice,  which  is  never  represented  there  as  vice,  but  as  mere  gayety. 
As  for  comedies,  says  the  ingenious  M.  Diderot,  in  his  observations 
upon  dramatic  poetry,  the  English  have  none;  they  have  in  their 
place,  satires,  full,  indeed,  of  gayety  and  force,  b"*  without  morals, 
and  without  taste ;  sans  mceurs,  et  sans  gout.  Tnere  is  no  wonder, 
therefore,  that  Lord  Kaimes,  in  his  Elements  of  Criticism,  should 
have  expressed  himself  upon  this  subject,  of  the  indelicacy  of  Eng 
lish  comedy,  in  terms  much  stronger  than  any  that  I  have  used ; 
concluding  his  invective  against  it  in  these  words:  'How  odious 
ought  ihose  writers  to  be,  who  thus  spread  infection  through  their 
native  country,  employing  the  talents  which  they  have  received  from 
their  Maker  most  traitorously  against  himself,  by  endeavouring  to 
corrupt  and  disfigure  his  creatures.  If  the  comedies  of  Congreve 
did  not  rack  him  with  remorse,  in  his  last  moments,  he  must  have 
been  lost  to  all  sense  of  virtue.'     Vol.  II.  479. 

I  am  happy,  however,  to  have  it  in  my  power  to  observe,  that  ot 
tale  years,  a  sensible  reformation  has  begun  to  take  place  in  English 
comedy.  We  have,  at  last,  become  ashamed  of  making  our  public 
entertainments  rest  wholly  upon  profligate  characters  and  scenes; 
and  our  later  comedies,  of  any  reputation,  are  much  purified  from 
the  licentiousness  of  former  times.  If  thpy  hive  not  the  spirit,  the 
ease,  and  the  wit  of  Congreve  and  Farquhar,  in  which  respect  they 
must  be  confessed  to  be  somewhat  deficient;  this  praise,  however, 
they  justly  merit,  of  being  innocent  and  moral. 

For  this  reformation,  we  are,  questionless,  much  indebted  to  the 
French  theatre,  which  has  not  only  been,  at  all  times,  more  chaste 
and  inoffensive  than  ours,  but  has,  within  these  few  years,  produced  a 
species  of  comedy,  of  a  still  graver  turn  than  any  that  I  have  yet 
mentioned.  This,which  is  called  the  serious,  or  tender  comedy,  and 
was  termed  by  its  opposers,  La  Comedie  Larmoyante,  is  not  altoge 
ther  a  modern  invention.  Several  of  Terence's  plays,  as  the  Andria, 
in  particular,  partake  of  this  character;  and  as  we  know  that  Terence 
copied  Menander,  we  have  sufficient  reason  to  believe  that  his  come- 
dies, also,  were  of  the  same  kind.  The  nature  of  this  composition 
does  not  by  any  means  exclude  gayety  and  ridicule  ;  but  it  lays  the 
chief  stress  upon  tender  and  interesting  situations;  it  aims  at  being 
sentimental,  and  touching  the  heart  by  means  of  the  capital  incidents; 
it  makes  our  pleasure  arise,  not  so  much  from  the  laughter  which  it 
excites,  as  from  the  tears  of  affection  and  joy  which  it  draws  forth. 

In  English,  Steele's  Conscious  Lovers  is  a  comedy  which  ap- 
proaches to  this  character,  and  it  has  always  been  favourably  receiv- 
ed by  the  public.  In  French,  there  are  several  dramatic  composi- 
tions of  this  kind,  which  possess  considerable  merit  and  reputation  * 


644  ENGLISH  COMEDY.  [lect.  jclvii 

such  as  the  Melanide,  and  Prejuge  a  la  Mode,  of  La  Chaussee; 
the  Pere  de  Famille,  of  Diderot;  the  Cenie,  of  Mad.  Graffigny ; 
and  the  Nanine,  and  L'Enfant  Prodigue,  of  Voltaire. 

When  this  form  of  comedy  first  appeared  in  France,  it  excited  a 
great  controversy  among  the  critics.  It  was  objected  to,  as  a  dan- 
gerous and  unjustifiable  innovation  in  compositon.  It  is  not  tragedy, 
for  it  does  not  involve  us  in  sorrow.  By  what  name  then  can  it  be 
called?  or  what  pretentions  hath  it  to  be  comprehended  under  dra- 
matic writing?  But  this  was  trifling,  in  the  most  egregious  manner, 
with  critical  names  and  distinctions,  as  if  these  had  invariably  fixed 
the  essence,  and  ascertained  the  limits  of  every  sort  of  composition 
Assuredly,  it  is  not  necessary  that  all  comedies  should  be  formed  on 
one  precise  model.  Some  may  be  entirely  light  and  gay  ;  others 
may  incline  more  to  the  serious;  some  may  partake  of  both,  and  all 
of  them,  properly  executed,  may  furnish  agreeable  and  useful  enter- 
tainment to  the  public,  by  suiting  the  different  tastes  of  men.* 
Serious  and  tender  comedy  has  no  title  to  claim  to  itself  the  posses- 
sion of  the  stage,  to  the  exclusion  of  ridicule  and  gayety.  But  when 
it  retains  only  its  proper  place,  without  usurping  the  province  of 
any  other,  when  it  is  carried  on  with  resemblance  to  real  life,  and 
without  introducing  romantic  and  unnatural  situations,  it  may  cer- 
tainly prove  both  an  interesting  and  an  agreeable  species  of  drama- 
tic writing.  If  it  become  insipid  and  drawling,  this  must  be  impu 
ted  to  the  fault  of  the  author,  not  to  the  nature  of  the  composition, 
which  may  admit  much  liveliness  and  vivacity. 

In  general,  whatever  form  comedy  assumes,  whether  gay  or  seri- 
ous, it  may  always  be  esteemed  a  mark  of  society  advancing  in  true 
politeness,  when  those  theatrical  exhibitions,  which  are  designed  for 
public  amusement,  are  cleared  from  indelicate  sentiment,  or  immo- 
ral tendency.  Though  the  licentious  buffoonery  of  Aristophanes 
amused  the  Greeks  for  a  while,  they  advanced  by  degrees  to  a  chas 
ter  and  juster  taste ;  and  the  like  progress  of  refinement  may  be  con- 
cluded to  take  place  among  us,  when  the  public  receive  with  favour, 
dramatic  compositions  of  such  a  strain  and  spirit  as  entertained  the 
Greeks  and  Romans,  in  the  days  of  Menander  and  Terence. 

*  'II  y  a  beaucoup  de  tres-bonnes  pieces,  oil  il  ne  regne  que  de  la  gaiet6:  d'autres 
(outes  sericuses;  d'autres  n;elang6es;  d'autres,  ou  Kattei;drissement  va  jusqu'aux  larmea. 
11  ne  laut  donner  exclusion  a  aucun  genre;  et  si  Ton  mc  demandoit,  quel  genre  est  le 
meilleur  ?  je  i6pondrois,  celuiqui  est  le  rsieux  traite.'  voltaibk. 


(  544  a  ) 


QUESTIONS. 


By  what  is  cmcVy  sufficiently  dis- 
criminated frotc  tuv,tidy?  What  form 
ihe  province  of  the  lUrer;  and  what  is 
the  sole  insirumen.  of  the  former? 
What  does  comedy  pvo>pose  for  its  ob- 
ject ?  Of  the  general  idea  of  oomedy, 
what  is  observed ;  ami  why  ?  What  is 
doing  real  service  to  the  world ;  and 
what  remark  follows  1  At  the  same 
time,  what  must  be  confessed;  and 
why  ?  What,  therefoie,  have  licentious 
writers  of  the  comic  class,  too  often  had 
in  their  power  ?  Of  this  fault,  what  is 
observed  ?  How  is  this  illustrated  ?  Of 
French,  and  of  English  comedy,  what 
is  here  observed  ?  How  are  our  disqui- 
sitions concerning  comedy  shortened? 
To  both  these  forms  of  dramatic  com- 
position, what  is  equally  necessary? 
What  was  shown  to  be  the  scope  of  all 
these  rules ;  and  why  is  this  necessary? 
Why  does  this  require  a  stricter  obser- 
vance of  the  dramatic  rules  in  comedy, 
than  in  tragedy;  and  what  are  the 
great  foundation  of  the  whole  beauty 
of  comedy?  Of  the  subjects  of  tragedy, 
what  is  here  observed  ?  Why  does  the 
reverse  of  this  hold  in  comedy  ?  How  is 
this  illustrated?  At  what  should  the 
comic  poet  aim  ?  What  is  not  his  busi- 
ness; what  should  he  give  us;  and  why? 
Of  Plautus  and  Terence,  what  is 
here  remarked ;  but  what  must  be  re- 
membered ?  In  after  times,  what  had 
the  Romans?  Into  what  two  lands  may 
comedy  be  divided ;  and  of  them,  re- 
spectively, what  is  observed?  In  which 
do  the  French  most  abound ;  and  what 
Instances  are  given  ?  In  which  do  the 
English ;  and  what  remark  follows  ? 
In  order  to  give  this  sort  of  composition 
its  proper  advantage,  what  is  requisite  ? 
How  is  this  remark  fully  illustrated  ? 
Of  the  action  in  comedy,  what  is  re- 
marked ;  and  why  ?  Hence,  what  is  a 
great  fault  ?  What  are  now  justly  con- 
demned and  laid  aside ;  and  why  ? 
What  remark  follows?  In  the  manage- 
ment of  characters,  what  is  one  of  the 
most  common  faults  of  comic  writers  ? 
Wherever  ridicule  is  concerned,  what 
is  very  difficult?  What  instance  is 
mentioned;  an,!  of  it,  what  is  remarked? 
Of  the  characters  in  comedy,  what  is 
observed;  but  what  give  too  theatrical 
and  affected  an  air  to  the  piece?  Why 
has  this  become  too  common  a  resource 
nf  comic  writers  ?  How  is  this  illustra- 
ted ?  What  instances  are  mentioned ; 
*3k\  «>uch  production  of  characters  by 


pairs,  is  like  what  ?  As  in  every  sort  of 
composition,  the  perfection  of  art  is  to 
conceal  art,  how  will  a  masterly  writer 
give  us  his  characters?  What  should 
the  style  of  comedy  be?  Of  the  French 
rhyme,  what  is  here  observed ;  and  what 
remark  follows?  What  is  one  of  the  most 
difficult  and  one  of  the  most  impor- 
tant circumstances  in  writing  comedy  ? 
What  is  here  observed  of  our  English 
comedies ;  what  ones  are  mentioned, 
and  what  is  said  of  them  ?  What  remark 
follows;  buthowwil'litsnatureand spirit 
be  better  understood?  With  what  re- 
mark does  our  author  commence ;  and 
how  is  it  probable  comedy  took  its  rise  ? 
What  three  stages  of  comedy  do  critics 
distinguish  among  the  Greeks?  In  what 
did  the  ancient  consist?  Of  this  nature, 
are  whose  plays,  and  what  is  said  of 
them  ?  What  do  they  show  ?  What  are 
several  of  Aristophanes's  plays?  Of 
what  are  they  full ;  what  is  the  conse- 
quence; and  with  what  do  they  abound? 
What  are  his  characteristics?  On  many 
occasions,  what  does  he  display  ;  but  ol 
his  performances,  what  remark  follows? 
Why  do  they  seem  to  have  been  com- 
posed for  the  mob?  Of  the  treatment 
given  by  this  comedian  to  Socrates, 
what  is  observed  ?  What  is  remarked 
of  the  chorus  in  his  plays  ?  Soon  af- 
ter the  days  of  Aristophanes,  what  took 
place?  Why  was  the  chorus  also 
banished?  Then  what  arose,  and  what 
was  it?  How  was  it  conducted;  and 
what  remark  follows?  To  them  suc- 
ceeded what,  and  what  did  the  stage 
then  become  ?  Of  Menander  what  is 
observed  ?  What  are  the  only  remains 
which  we  now  have  of  the  new  come- 
dy? For  what  is  Plautus  distinguished? 
As  he  wrote  at  an  early  period,  what  is 
the  consequence?  How  does  he  open 
his  plays;  and  what  are  sometimes  con- 
founded ?  Of  him,  what  is  farther  re- 
marked? Which  of  his  plays  have 
been  copied  ;  and  by  whom  ?  What  is 
said  of  Terence?  Of  what  is  his  style 
a  model  ?  What  is  observed  of  his  dia- 
logue ;  and  what  does  he,  beyond  most 
writers,  possess  ?  What  is  the  general 
character  of  his  morality;  and  what 
remark  follows?  Hence,  of  what  may 
he  be  considered  the  founder  ?  In  what, 
if  in  any  thing,  does  he  fail  ?  How  is 
this  illustrated  ?  In  ordei  to  form  a  per- 
fect comic  author,  what  would  be  rie- 
quisite  ? 
When  we  enter  on  the  view  of  mo- 


544  6 


QUESTIONS. 


[lect.  xlvii 


dern  comedy,  what  is  one  of  the  first 
objects  which  presents  itself;  and  of  it, 
what  is  observed  ?  Who  are  the  chief 
Spanish  comedians  ?  Of  Lopez  de 
Vega,  what  is  remarked  ?  Of  these 
plays,  what  is  the  nature  ?  At  the  same 
time,  what  is  generally  admitted? 
What  apology  does  he  himself  give, 
for  the  extreme  irregularity  of  his  com- 
|>ositions  ?  What  are  the  general  cha- 
racters of  1  he  French  comic  theatre? 
What  writers  of  note  has  it  produced  ? 
Of  Moliere,  what  .b  .arther  observed? 
What  does  Voltaire  boldly  pronounce 
him?  Of  this  decision,  what  is  obser- 
veu?  Of  what  is  Moliere  always  the 
satirist ;  and  what  has  he  done  ?  What 
does  he  possess,  and  of  what  is  he  full  ? 
Of  his  comedies  in  verse,  what  is  ob- 
served ;  and  also  of  those  in  prose, 
what  is  remarked?  Together  with 
those  high  qualities  what  defects  has 
he  ?  Few  writers,  however,  have  done 
what,  so  perfectly  as  he  has  ?  Which  are 
accounted  his  two  capital  productions? 
From  the  English  theatre,  what  are  we 
naturally  led  to  expect ;  and  why  ?  What 
afford  full  scope  to  the  display  of  singu- 
larity of  character,  and  to  the  indulgence 
of  humour  ?  What  is  the  casein  France? 
Hence,  what  follows  ;  but  what  is  ex- 
tremely unfortunate  ?  How  does  it  ap- 
pear that  the  first  age  of  Euglisii  come- 
dy was  not  infected  by  this  spirit?  Of 
Shakspeare's  general  character,  par- 
ticularly, what  is  observed?  What  is 
also  said  of  Jonson  ?  What  is  remarked 
of  the  plays  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher; 
but  in  general,  with  what  do  they 
abound?  How  have  these  comedies  be 
come  too  obsolete  to  be  very  agreeable; 
and  why  ?  With  what  comedies  is  this 
especially  the  case;  and  for  what  reason? 
Of  Plautus,  what  is  here  observed ;  and 
what  is  a  high  proof  of  Shakspeare's 
genius  ?  When  did  licentiousness  seize 
on  comedy  for  its  province  ?  Who  then 
became  the  hero  of  every  comedy ;  and 
upon  what  was  the  ridicule  thrown  ? 
At  the  end  of  the  play,  what  common- 
ly took  place  1  But  for  what  is  he  set 
up  throughout  it,  and  what  is  the  conse- 
quence? What  remark  follows ;  and 
how  long  did  this  spirit  prevail  upon 
the  comic  stage?  What  is  said  of  Dry- 
den?  As  he  sought  to  please  only, 
what  was  the  consequence?  Since  his 
time,  who  have  been  the  writers  of 
greatest  note  ?  Of  Cibber,  what  is  re- 
marked? Of  the  former,  what  is  ob- 
served ;  and  what  is  said  of  the  latter? 
To  what  is  i*  liable;  anil    wbv.?  5->it 


hrw  is  this  irregularity  compensated? 
At  what  are  we  surprised;  and  why? 
What  is  said  of  Sir  John  Vanburgh  ? 
How  is  this  illustrated?  Of  Congreve, 
what  is  observed  ;  and  what  is  his  chief 
fault?  How  is  this  illustrated?  What 
kind  of  a  writer  is  Farquhar  ?  Which 
are  his  two  best  plays  ?  Why  does  our 
author  say  the  least  exceptionable? 
How  is  this  fully  illustrated  ?  Of  the 
censure  which  our  author  has  now 
passed,  what  is  observed;  and  why? 
How  do  foreigners  speak  of  this?  How 
is  this  illustrated  ?  Of  what,  therefore, 
is  there  no  wonder,  and  what  does  he 
say  ?  To  have  what  in  his  power,  how- 
ever, is  our  author  happy ;  and  of  what 
have  we  at  last  become  ashamed  ? 
What  remark  lbllows  ?  For  this  refor- 
mation, to  what  are  we  indebted ;  and 
of  it  what  is  observed  ?  From  what 
does  it  appear  that  this  is  not  altoge- 
ther a  modern  invention  ?  Of  the  na- 
ture of  this  composition,  what  is  obser- 
ved? What  comedy  have  we  in  Eng- 
lish that  approaches  this  character; 
and  what  is  said  of  it?  In  French, 
what  are  there ;  and  name  them  ? 
When  this  form  of  comedy  first  ap- 
peared in  France,  how  was  it  received? 
Why  was  it  objected  to ;  and  what 
was  said  of  it  ?  But  of  this,  what  is  ob- 
served ?  Why  should  not  all  comedies 
be  formed  on  one  precise  model  ?  Of 
serious  and  tender  comedy,  what  is  far- 
ther remarked?  But  when  may  it  prove 
both  an  interesting  and  an  agree- 
able species  of  dramatic  writing?  If  it 
become  insipid  and  drawling,  to  what 
must  this  be  imputed  ?  What  may  aW 
ways  be  esteemed  a  mark  of  society 
advancing  in  true  politeness?  Repeat 
the  closing  remark. 


ANALYSIS. 

Comedy. 

1.  The  nature  of  comedy. 

2.  Rules  respecting'  it. 

3.  The  scene  and  subjects. 

4.  The  different  kinds  of  comedy. 

5.  The  characters. 

6.  The  style. 

7.  The  origin  of  comedy. 

8.  Greek  comedy. 

a.  The  different  stages  of  it. 

9.  Spanish  comedy. 
a.  Lopez  de  Vega. 

10.  French  comedy. 
A.  Moliere. 

11.  English  comedy. 

a.  Shakspeare — Beaumont — Fletchflft 

b.  Drydcn— Cibber— Vanburgh— Cod 

n-rovc. 

c.  A  ni-w  species  of  comedy. 


INDEX. 


Accents,  thrown  farther  back  from  the  ter-         that  mountain,  46.    And  on  that  by  3k 
minaiion  in  the  English  than  in  any  oth-         Richard  Blackmore,  ibid. 
rr  language,  99.      Seldom  more  than    Affectation,  the  disadvantages  of,  in  public 


one  in  English  words,  368.  Govern  the 
measure  of  English  verse,  430. 

Achilles,  his  character  in  the  Iliad  examin- 
ed, 485. 

Action,  much  used  to  assist  language  in  an 
imperfect  state,  63.  And  by  ancient  ora- 
tors and  players,  64.  Fundamental  rule 
of  propriety  in,  374.  Caution  with  res- 
pect to,  376.  In  epic  poetry,  the  requi- 
sites of,  474. 

Acts,  the  division  of  a  play  into  five,  and 
arbitrary  limitation,  513.  These  pauses 
in  representation  ought  to  fall  proper- 
ly, 614. 

Adam,  his  character  in  Milton's  Paradise 
Lost,  504. 

Addison,  general  view  of  his  Essay  on  the 
Pleasures  of  the  Imagination,  31.  His 
invocation  of  the  muse  in  his  Campaign 
censured,  48.  Blemishes  in  his  style, 
1 15,  1 16,  124.    Ease  aud  perspicuity  of, 


speaking,  376. 

Ages,  four,  peculiarly  fruitful  in  learned 
men,  pointed  out,  388. 

Akenside,  his  comparison  between  sublimi- 
ty in  natural  and  moral  objects,  36,  note. 
Instance  of  his  happy  allusion  to  figures, 
155.  Characters  of  his  Pleasures  of  the 
Imagination,  449. 

Alphabet  of  letters,  the  consideration  which 
led  to  the  invention  of,  76.  Remote  ob 
scurity  of  this  invention,  ibid.  The  al- 
phabets of  different  nations  derived  from 
one  common  source,  77. 

Allegory,  explained,  168.  Anciently  a  fa- 
vourite method  of  conveying  instruc- 
tions, 169.  Allegorical  personages  im- 
proper agents  in  epic  poetry,  172,  230. 

Ambiguity  in  style,  from  whence  it  pro- 
ceeds, 1 14. 

Amplification  in  speech,  what,  191.      Its 


principal  instrument,  ibid. 

127,  128,  130.    His  beautiful  description  American  languages,  the  figurative  style 

of  light  and  colours,  155.      Instance  of  of,  67,  152. 

his  use  of  metaphor,  165.      Improper  Anagnorisis,  in  ancient  tragedy  explained, 

use  of  similes,  184.      His  general  cha-  515. 

racter  as  a  writer,  208.     Character  of  Annals  and   history,  the   distinction   be- 

his  Spectator,  216.      Critical  examina-  tween,  408. 

tion  of  some  of  those  papers,  ibid.     Re-  Ancients  and  moderns  distinguished,  388. 


marks  on  his  criticism  of  Tasso's  Amin- 
ta,  441,  note.  His  tragedy  of  Cato  cri- 
tically examined,  511,  518,522,524. 

Adjectives,  common  to  all  languages,  88. 
How  they  came  to  be  classed  with  nouns, 
ibid. 

idverbs,  their  nature  and  use  defined,  93. 
Importance  of  their  position  in  a  sen- 
tence illustrated,  115. 

JEneid,  of  Virgil,  critical  examination  of 


The  merits  of  ancient  writers  are  now 
finally  ascertained,  389.  The  progress 
of  knowledge  favourable  to  the  moderns, 
in  forming  a  comparison  between  them, 
390.  In  philosophy  and  history,  ibid. 
The  efforts  of  genius  greater  among  the 
ancients,  391.  A  mediocrity  of  genius 
now  more  diffused,  392. 
Antithesis,  in  language  explained,  188. 
The  too  frequent  use  of,  censured,  ibid. 


that  poem,  489.    The  subject,  ibid.    Ac-  Apostrophe,  the  nature  of  this  figure  ex 

tion,  490.      Is  deficient  in  characters,  plained,  179.      Find  one  from  Cicero. 

ibid.     Distribution  and  management  of  290,  note. 

the  subject,  ibid.      Abounds  with  awful  Arabian  Nights  Entertainments,  a  charac- 

and  tender  scenes,  491.      The  descent  ter  of  those  tales,  418. 

of  jEneas  into  hell,  492.     The  poem  left  Arabian  poetry,  its  character,  425. 


unfinished  by  Virgil,  493. 
JEsthines,  a  comparison  between  him  and 

Demosthenes,  272. 
AZsrJiylus,  bis  character  as  a  tragic  writer, 

526. 
BZtna,  remarks  on  Virgil's  description  of 


4K 


6S 


Arbuthnol,  character  of  his  epistolary  writ- 
ing, 416. 

Architecture,  sublimity  in,  whence  it  arises, 
35.     The  sources  of  beauty  in,  54. 

Argument*,  the  proper  management  of  in 
a  discourse,  353.     Analytic  and  synthe- 


546 


INDEX. 


tic  methods,  354.  Arrangement  of,  355. 
Are  not  to  be  too  much  multiplied,  357. 

Ariosto,  character  of  his  Orlando  Furioso, 
419,  498. 

Aristotle,  his  rules  for  dramatic  and  epic 
composition,  whence  derived,  27.  His 
definition  of  a  sentence,  112.  His  ex- 
tended sense  of  the  term  metaphor,  159. 
Character  of  his  style,  197, 201.  His  in- 
stitutions of  rhetoric,  270,  386.  His  de- 
finition of  tragedy  considered,  507.  His 
observations  on  tragic  characters,  520. 

Aristophanes,  character  of  his  comedies, 
537. 

Arithmetical  figures,  universal  characters, 
75. 

Ark  of  tl.e  covenant,  choral  service  per- 
formed in  the  procession  of  bringing  it 
back  to  Mount  Zion,  461. 

Armstrong,  character  of  his  Art  of  Preserv- 
ing Health,  449. 

Art,  «  orks  of,  considered  as  a  source  of 
beauty,  54. 

Artichs,  in  language,  the  use  of,  81.  Their 
importance  in  the  English  language  il- 
lustrated, ibid. 

Articulation,  clearness  of,  necessary  in 
public  speaking,  367. 

■Associations,  academical,  recommended, 
384.  Instructions  for  the  regulation  of, 
385. 

Athenians,  ancient  character  of,  266.  Elo- 
quence of,  ibid. 

Atterbury,  a  more  harmonious  writer  than 
Tillolson,  142.  Critical  examination  of 
one  of  his  sermons,  326.  His  exordium 
to  a  30th  of  January  sermon,  345. 

Mtici  and  Asiani, parties  at  Rome,  account 
of,  275. 

Authors,  petty, why  no  friends  to  criticism, 
28.  Why  the  most  ancient  afford  the 
most  striking  instances  of  sublimity,  39. 
Must  write  with  puritv  to  gain  esteem, 
100,  101. 

B. 

Bacon,  his  observations  on  romances,  417. 

Ballads,  have  great  influence  over  the  man- 
ners of  a  people,  417.  Were  the  first 
vehicles  of  historical  knowledge  and  in- 
struction, 423. 

Bar,  the  eloquence  of  defined,  263  Why 
more  confined  than  the  pleadings  before 
ancient  tribunals,  283.  Distinction  be- 
tween the  motives  of  pleading  at  the 
bar,  and  speaking  in  popular  assemblies, 
299.  In  what  respect  ancient  pleadings 
differ  from  those  of  modern  times,  ibid. 
Instructions  for  pleaders,  301,  350. 

Bards,  ancient,  the  first  founders  of  law 
and  civilization,  424. 

Barrow,  Dr.  character  of  his  style,  199. 
Character  of  his  sermons,  325. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  their  characters 
ns  dramatic  poets,  540. 

ieauly,  the  emotion  raised  by,  distinguish- 
ed from  that  of  sublimity,  49.   Is  a  term 


of  vague  application,  50.  Colours,  ibid 
Figures,  51.  Hogarth's  line  of  beauty 
and  line  of  grace  considered,  51.  The 
hum*n  countenance,  53.  Works  of  art, 
ibid.  The  influence  of  fitness  and  de- 
sign in  our  ideas  of  beauty,  54.  Beauty 
in  literary  composition,  ibid.  Novelty 
55.     Imitation,  ibid. 

Bergerus,a  German  critic,  writes  a  treatii* 
on  the  sublimity  of  Cssar  s  Commenta- 
ries, 38. 

Berkeley,  bishop,  character  of  his  Dia- 
logues on  the  existence  of  Matter,  413 

Biography,  as  the  class  of  historical  com- 
position, characterized,  409. 

Blackmore,  Sir  Richard,  remarks  on  his 
description  of  Mount  ^Etna,  46. 

Blackwell,  his  character  as  a  writer,  210. 

Boileau,  his  character  as  a  didactic  poet, 
451. 

Bolingbroke,  instances  of  inaccuracy  in  hw 
style,  121,  132.  A  beautiful  climax 
from,  129.  A  beautiful  metaphor  from, 
159.  His  general  character  as  a  politi- 
cian and  philosopher,  160.  His  general 
character  as  a  writer,  211,  383. 

Bombast,  in  writing  described,  48. 

Bossu,  his  definition  of  an  epic  poem,  470. 
His  account  of  the  composition  of  the 
Iliad,  471. 

Bossuet,  M.  instances  of  apostrophes  to 
personified  objects,  in  his  funeral  ora- 
tions, 179,  note.  Conclusion  of  his  fu- 
neral oration  on  the  Prince  of  Conde,364. 

Britain,  Great,  not  eminent  for  the  study 
of  Eloquence,  280.  Compared  with 
France  in  this  respect,  281. 

Bruyere,  his  parallel  between  the  elo 
quence  of  the  pulpit  and  the  bar,  313, 
note. 

Buchanan,  his  character  as  an  historian, 
407. 

Building,  how  rendered  sublime,  35. 
C. 

Cadmus,  account  of  his  alphabet,  76. 

Cottar's  commentaries,  the  style  of  charac- 
terized, 38.  Is  considered  by  Bergerug 
as  a  standard  of  sublime  writing,  ibid 
Instance  of  his  happy  talent  in  historical 
painting,  404,  note.  His  character  ol 
Terence  the  dramatist,  538. 

Cameons,  critical  examination  of  his  Lusv- 
ad,  499.    Confused  machinery  of,  ibid. 

Campbell,  Dr.  his  observations  on  English 
particles,  87,  note. 

Carmel,  Mount,  metaphorical  allusions  to 
in  Hebrew  poetry,  464. 

Casimir,  his  character  as  a  lyric  poet,  446. 

Catastrophe,  the  proper  conduct  of,  in  dra- 
matic representations,  514. 

Caudine  Forks,  Livy's  happy  descriptioa 
dfthedisgraceof  the  Roman  armythere, 
402. 

Celtic  language,  its  antiquity  and  charac- 
ter, 95  The  remains  of  it  where  to  bt 
found,  ibid,     Poetry, its  character,  424 


INDEX. 


547 


Characters,  the  dangers  of  labouring  them 
too  much  in  historical  works,  405.  The 
due  requ. sites  of,  in  tragedy,  519. 

Chinese  language,  character  of,  64.  And 
writing,  74. 

Chivalry,  origin  of,  418. 

Chorus,  ancient,  described,  609.  Was  the 
origin  of  tragedy,  ibid.  Inconveniences 
of,  ibid.  How  it  might  properly  be  in 
troduced  on  the  modern  theatre,  503. 

Chronology,  a  due  attention  to,  necessary 
to  historical  compositions,  397. 

Chrysostom  St.  his  oratorical  character, 
280. 

Cibber,  his  character  as  a  dramatic  writer, 
541. 

Cicero,  his  ideas  of  taste,  17,  note.  His  dis- 
tinction between  amare  and  diligere,  108. 
His  observations  on  style,  113.  Very 
attentive  to  the  beauties  of  climax,  129. 
Is  the  most  harmonious  of  all  writers, 
135.  His  remarks  on  the  power  of  mu- 
sic in  orations,  137.  His  attention  to 
harmony  too  visible,  141.  Instance  of 
his  happy  talent  of  adapting  sound  to 
sense,  113.  His  account  of  the  origin 
of  figurative  language,  152.  His  obser- 
vations on  suiting  language  to  the  sub- 
ject, lr»l.  His  rule  for  the  use  of  meta- 
phor, 162.  Instance  of  antithesis  in,  187. 
The  figure  of  speech  called  vision,  y>J. 
His  caution  against  bestowing  profuse 
ornaments  on  an  oration,  193.  His  dis- 
tinction of  style,  196.  His  own  charac- 
ter as  a  writer,  197.  His  character  of 
the  Grecian  orators,  268.  His  own  cha- 
racter as  an  orator,  274.  Compared 
with  Demosthenes,  276.  Masterly  apos- 
trophe in,  290,  note.  His  method  of 
studying  the  judicial  causes  he  under- 
took to  plead,  301.  State  of  the  prose- 
cution of  AvitiisCluentius,305.  Analysis 
of  Cicero's  oration  for  him,  ibid.  The  ex- 
ordiumof  hissecond oration  against  Rul- 
lus,  343.  His  method  of  preparingintro- 
ductions  to  his  orations, 344.  Excelled  in 
narration,  351.  His  defence  of  Milo.  ibid. 
357.  Instance  of  the  pathetic  in  his  last 
oration  against  Verres,  362.  Character  of 
his  treatise  de  Oratore,  389.  Character 
of  his  dialogues/112      His  epistles,  415. 

Clarendon,  Lord,  remarks  on  his  style, 
120.   His  character  as  an  historian,  407. 

Clarke,  Dr.  the  style  of  his  sermons  cha- 
racterized, 324. 

Classics,  ancient,  their  merits  now  finally 
6ettleil  beyond  controversy,  388.  The 
study  of  them  recommended,  393. 

Climax,  a  great  beauty  in  composition, 
129.     In  what  it  consists,  191. 

Cluenlhis,  Avitus,  history  of  his  prosecu- 
tion, 305.  in*  cause  undertaken  by  Ci- 
cero, ibid.  Analysis  of  Cicero's  oration 
for  him,  ibid. 

Colours,  considered  as  the  foundation  of 
beauty,  60. 


Comedy,  how  distinguished  from  tragedy, 
506,  533.  Rules  for  the  conduct  of,  ibid. 
The  characters  in,  ought  to  be  of  our 
own  country  and  our  own  time,  634. 
Two  kinds  of,  ibid.  Characters  ought 
to  be  distinguished,  535.  Style,  636. 
Rise  and  progress  of  comedy,  ibid.  Spa- 
nish comedy,  538.  French  comedy,  539. 
English  comedy,  640.  Licentiousness  of, 
from  the  era  of  the  restoration,  541. 
The  restoration  of,  to  what  owkig,  543. 
General  remarks,  544. 

Comparison,  distinguished  from  metaphor, 
15B.  The  nature  of  this  figure  explain- 
ed, 181. 

Composition.     See  Literary  composition. 

Congreve,  the  plot  of  his  Mourning  Bride 
embarrassed,  513.  General  character 
of  his  tragedy,  532.     His  comedies,  641. 

Conjugation  of  verbs,  the  varieties  of,  90. 

Conviction,  distinguished  from  persuasion, 
262. 

Copulatives,  caution  for  the  use  of  them, 
124. 

Corneille,  his  character  as  a  tragic  writer, 
528. 

Couplets,  the  first  introduction  of,  into 
English  poetry,  432. 

Cowley,  instances  of  forced  metaphors  in 
his  poems,  162.  His  use  of  similes  cen- 
sured, 186.  His  general  character  as  a 
poet,  446. 

Crevier,  his  character  of  several  eminent 
French  writers,  382,  note. 

Criticism,  true  and  pedantic  distinguished, 
13.  Its  object,  27.  Its  origin,  28. 
Why  complained  of  by  petty  authors, 
ibid.  May  sometimes  decide  against  the 
voice  of  the  public,  ibid. 

Cyphers,  or  arithmetical  figures,  a  kind  of 
universal  character,  75. 
D. 

David,  King,  his  magnificent  institutions 
for  the  cultivation  of  sacred  music  and 
poetry,  460.  His  character  as  a  poet, 
468. 

Debate  in  popular  assemblies,  the  eloquence 
of,  defined,  262.  More  particularly  cou 
sidered,  285.     Rules  for,  287. 

Declamation,  unsupported  by  sound  rea- 
soning, false  eloquence,  286. 

Declension  of  nouns  considered  in  various 
languages,  84.  Whether  cases  or  pre- 
positions were  most  anciently  used,  85 
Which  of  them  are  most  useful  arnl 
beautiful,  86. 

Deities,  heathen,  probable  cause  of  the 
number  of,  173. 

Deliberative  orations  what,  284. 

Delivery,the  importanceof,in  public  speak- 
ing, 292,  365.  The  four  chief  requisites 
in*  363.  The  powers  of  voice,  ibid. 
Articulation,  367.  Pronunciation,  36S. 
Empaasis,  369.  Pauses,  370.  Decla 
matory  delivery,  374.  Action  ibid.  At 
fectation  376. 


548 


INDEX. 


Demetrius,  Phalerus,  the  rhetoiician,  his 
character,  273. 

Demonstrative  orations,  what,  284. 

Demosthenes,  his  eloquence  characterized, 
267.  His  expedients  to  surmount  the 
disadvantages  of  his  person  and  address, 
271.  His  opposition  to  Philip  of  Ma- 
cedon,  ibid.  His  rivalship  with  iEs- 
chines,  272.  His  style  and  action,  ibid. 
Compared  with  Cicero,  276.  Why  his 
orations  still  please  in  perusal,  286. 
Extracts  from  his  Philippics,  293.  His 
definition  of  the  several  points  of  orato- 
ry, 365. 

Description,  the  great  test  of  a  poet's  ima- 
gination, 452.  Selection  of  circum- 
stances, ibid.  Inanimate  objects  should 
be  enlivened,  455.  Choice  of  epithets, 
456. 

Description  and  imitation,  the  distinction 
between,  56. 

Des  Brosses,  his  speculations  on  the  ex- 
pressive power  of  radical  letters  and 
syllables,  61,  note. 

Dialogue  writing,  the  properties  of,  411. 
Is  very  difficult  to  execute,  412.  Mo- 
dern dialogues  characterized,  ibid. 

Didactic  poetry,  its  nature  explained,  447. 
The  most  celebrated  productions  in  this 
class  specified,  ibid.  Rules  for  composi- 
tions of  this  kind,  448.  Proper  embel- 
lishments of,  ibid. 

Diderot,  M.  his  character  of  English  Co- 
medy, 543. 

Dido,  her  character  in  the  jEneid  examin- 
ed, 490. 

Dionysius  of  Halicarnassus,  his  ideas  of 
excellency  in  a  sentence,  136  His  His- 
tinction  of  style,  196.  Character  of  his 
treatise  on  Grecian  oratory,  269.  His 
comparison  between  Lysias  and  Tso- 
crates,  270,  note.  His  ci  iticisin  on  Thu- 
cydides,  397. 

Discourse.     See  Oration. 

Dramatic  poetry,  the  origin  of,  425.  Dis- 
tinguished by  its  objects,  505.  See  Tra- 
gedy and  Comedy. 

Dryden,  one  of  the  first  reformers  of  our 
style,  200.  Johnson's  character  of  his 
prose  style,  ibid,  note.  His  character  as 
a  poet,  432.  His  character  of  Shak- 
speare,  530,  note.  His  own  character  as 
a  dramatic  writer^  531,  541. 

Du  Bos,  Abbe-,  his  remark  on  the  theatri- 
cal compositions  of  the  ancients,  137. 
E. 

Education,  liberal  and  essential  requisite 

for  eloquence,  380. 
Egypt,  the  style  of  the  hieroglyphical  writ- 
ing of,  73.     This  an  early  stage  of  the 
art  of  writing,  ibid.     The  alphabet  pro- 
bably invented  in  that  country,  76. 
Emphasis,  its  importance  in  public  speak- 
ing, 369.     Rule  for,  ibid. 
Eloquence,  tht>  several  objects  of  considera- 
tion under  this  head,  261.   Definition  of 


the  teim,  262,  377.  Fundamental  max- 
ims of  the  a>t,  262.  Defended  against 
the  objection  of  the  abuse  of  the  art  ol 
persuasion,  ibid.  Three  kinds  of  elo 
quence  distinguished,  263.  Oratory,  thv 
highest  degree  of,  the  offspring  of  pas- 
sion, 264.  Requisites  for  eloquence,  ibid. 
French  eloquence,  265.  Grecian,  266 
Rise  and  character  of  the  rhetoricians  of 
Greece,  268.  Roman,  274.  The  attici 
and  asiani,  276.  Comparison  between 
Cicero  and  Demosthenes,  ibid.  The 
schools  of  the  declaimers,  279.  The 
eloquence  of  the  primitive  fathers  of  the 
church,  280.  General  remarks  on  mod- 
em  eloquence,  ibid.  Parliament,  283. 
The  bar  and  pulpit, ibid.  The  three  kinds 
of  orations  distinguished  by  the  ancients, 

284.  These  distinctions  how  far  corres- 
pondent with  those    made  at    present, 

285.  Eloquence  of  popular  assemblies 
considered,  ibid  The  foundation  of  elo- 
quence, 286.  The  danger  of  trusting  to 
prepared  speeches  at  public  meetings, 
287.  Necessary  premeditation  pointed 
out,  ibid.  Method,  288.  Style  and  ex- 
pression, ibid.  Impetuosity,  289.  At- 
tention to  decorums,  290.  Delivery, 
292,  366.  Summary,  292.  See  Cicero, 
Demosthenes,  Oration,  and  Pulpit. 

English  language,  the  arrangement  of 
words  in,  more  refined  than  that  of  an- 
cient languages,  70.  But  more  limited, 
ibid.  The  principles  of  general  grammar 
seldom  applied  to  it,  78.  The  important 
use  of  articles  in,  81.  All  substantive 
nouns  of  inanimate  objects  of  the  neuter 
gender,  82.  The  place  of  declension  in, 
supplied  by  prepositions,  85.  The  va- 
rious tenses  of  English  verbs,  91.  His- 
torical view  of  the  English  language, 
95.  The  Celtic  the  primitive  language  ol 
Britain,  ibid.  The  Teutonic  tongue  the 
basis  of  our  present  speech,  96.  Its  ir- 
regularities accounted  for,  ibid.  Its 
copiousness,  ibid.  Compared  with  the 
French  language,  97.  Its  style  charac- 
terized, ibid,  its  flexibility,  98.  Is  more 
harmonious  than  is  generally  allowed, 
ibid.  Is  rather  strong  than  graceful,  99. 
Accent  thrown  farther  back  in  English 
words,  than  in  those  of  any  other  lan- 
guage, ibid.  General  properties  of  the 
English  tongue,  ibid.  Why  so  loosely 
and  inaccurately  written,  100.  The 
fundamental  rides  of  syntax,  common 
both  to  the  English  and  Latin,  ibid. 
No  author  can  gain  esteem  if  he  does 
not  write  with  purity,  101.  Grammati- 
cal authors  recommended,  ibid,  note. 

Epic  poetry,  the  standards  of,  393.  Is  the 
highest  effort  of  poetical  genius,  470. 
The  characters  of,  obscured  by  critics, 
ibid.  Examination  of  Bossu's  account 
of  the  formation  of  the  Iliad,  ibid.  Epic 
poetry  considered  as  to  its  moral  tenden- 


INDEX. 


549 


ey,  472.  Predominant  character  of,  473. 
Action  of,  ibid.  Episodes,  474.  The 
subject  should  be  of  remote  date,  475. 
Modern  history  more  proper  for  dramatic 
writing  than  for  epic  poetry,  ibid.  The 
story  must  be  interesting  and  skilfully 
managed,  476.  The  intrigue,  477.  The 
question  considered  whether  it  ought 
to  end  successfully,  ibid.  Duration  for 
the  action,  ibid.  Characters  of  the 
personages,  478.  The  principal  hero, 
ibid.  The  machinery,  479  Narration, 
480.     Loose  observations,  481. 

Episode,  defined  with  reference  to  epic 
poetry,  474.     Rules  for  conduct  of,  475. 

Epistolary  writing,  general  remarks  on, 
413. 

Eve,  her  character  in  Milton's  Paradise 
Lost,  504. 

Euripides,  instance  of  his  excellence  in  the 
pathetic,  524,  note.  His  character  as  a 
tragic  writer,  527. 

Exclamations,  the  proper  use  of,  189. 
Mode  of  their  operation,  ibid.  Rule  for 
the  employment  of,  190. 

Exercise  improves  both  bodily  and  mental 
powers,  18. 

Exordium  of  a  discourse,  the  objects  of, 
342.     Rules  for  the  composition  of,  343. 

Explication  of  the  subject  of  a  sermon,  ob- 
servation on,  352. 

F. 

Face,  human,  the  beauty  of,  complex,  53. 

Farquhar,  his  character  as  a  dramatic  writ- 
er, 542. 

Fathers,  Latin,  character  of  their  style  of 
eloquence,  279. 

Fenelon,  archbishop,  his  parallel  between 
Demosthenes  and  Cicero,  277.  His  re- 
marks on  the  composition  of  a  sermon, 
347.  Critical  examination  of  his  Ad- 
ventures of  Telemachus,  500. 

Fielding,  a  character  of  his  novels,  420. 

Figurative  style  of  language  defined,  146. 
Is  not  a  scholastic  invention,  but  a  natu- 
ral effusion  of  imagination,  147.  How 
described  by  rhetoricians,  148.  Will  not 
render  a  cold  or  empty  composition  in- 
teresting, 149.  The  pathetic  and  sub- 
lime reject  figures  of  speech,  ibid.  Ori- 
gin of,  150.  How  they  contribute  to 
the  beauty  of  style,  153.  Illustrative  des- 
cription, 154.  Heightened  emotion,  ibid. 
The  rhetorical  names  and  classes  of  fig- 
ures frivolous,  156.  The  beauties  of 
composition  not  dependant  on  tropes  and 
figares,  192.  Figures  must  always  rise 
naturally  from  the  subject,  193.  Are  not 
to  be  profusely  used,  194.  The  talent 
of  using  derived  from  nature,  and  not  to 
be  created,  ibid.  If  improperly  intro- 
duced, are  a  deformity,  ibid,note.  See 
Metaphor. 

Figure,  considered  as  a  source  of  beauty, 
61. 

Figurts  of  speech,  the  origin  ef,  66 


Figures  of  thought  among  rhetoricians,  de- 
fined, 148. 

Fitriess  and  design,  considered  as  sources 
of  beauty,  54. 

Fleece,  a  poem,  harmonious  passage  from, 
145. 

Fonlenelle,  character  of  his  dialogues,  413. 

French,  Norman,  when  introduced  into 
England,  95. 

French  writers,  general  remarks  on  their 
style,  198.  Eloquence.265,280.  Frendi 
and  English  oratory  compared,  282. 

Frigidity  in  writing  characterized,  48. 
G. 

Gay,  a  character  of  his  pastorals,  411. 

Gender  of  nouns,  foundation  of,  82. 

Genius  distinguished  from  taste,  29.  Its 
import,  ibid.  Includes  taste,  30.  The 
pleasures  of  the  imagination,  a  striking 
testimony  of  Divine  berevoience,  31. 
True,  is  nursed  by  liberty,  265.  In  arts 
and  writing,  why  displayed  more  in  one 
age  than  another,  291.  Was  more  vi- 
gorous in  the  ancients  than  in  the  mod- 
erns, 391.  A  general  mediocrity  of, 
how  diffused,  ibid. 

Gesner,  a  character  of  his  Idyls,  440. 

Gestures  in  public  oratory.     See  Jlction. 

Gil  Bias  of  Le  Sage,  character  of  that  no- 
vel, 419. 

Girard,  abb6,  character  of  his  Synonymts 
Francois,  111. 

Gordon,  instances  of  his  unnatural  disposi- 
tion of  words,  56. 

Gorgius  of  Leontiura,  the  rhetorician,  his 
character,  268. 

Gothic  poetry,  its  character,  424. 

Gracchus,  C.  his  declamations  regulated  by 
musical  rules,  137. 

Grammar,  general,  the  principles  of,  titles 
attended  to  by  writers,  78.  The  divi- 
sion of  the  several  parts  of  speech,  79. 
Nouns  substantive,  80.  Articles,  bl. 
Number,  gender,  and  case  of  nouns,  82. 
Prepositions,  85.  Pronouns,  88.  Ad- 
jectives, ibid.  Verbs,  90.  Verbs  the 
most  artificial  complex  of  all  the  parts 
of  speech,  92.  Adverbs,  93.  Prepo- 
sitions and  conjunttii  ns,  ibid.  Impor- 
tance of  the  study  of  grammar,  94. 

Grandeur.     See  Sublimity. 

Greece,  short  account  of  Ihe  ancient  repub- 
lics of,  266.  Eloquence  carefully  stu- 
died there,  287.  Characters  of  the  dis 
tinguished  orators  of,  ibid.  Rise  and 
character  of  the  rhetoricians,  268. 

Greek,  a  musical  language,  64,  136.  Iti 
flexibility,  93.  Writers  distinguished 
•or  simplicity,  207. 

Guarini,  character  of  his  Pastor  Fido,  441 

Guicciardini,  his  character  as  an  historian 
406. 

H. 

Habakkuk,  sublime  representation  of  tht 
Deity  in,  40. 

Harris,  explanatory  simile  cited  from,  183 


550 


IJNDEX. 


Hebrew  poetry,  in  what  points  of  view 
to  be  considered,  459.  The  ancient  pro- 
nunciation of  lost,  460.  Music  and  poe- 
try, early  cultivated  among  the  He- 
brews, ibid.  Construction  of  Hebrew 
poetry,  ibid.  Is  distinguished  by  a  con- 
cise strong  figurative  expression,  463. 
The  metaphors  employed  in,  suggested 
by  the  climate  and  nature  of  the  land 
of  Judea,  463,  465.  Bold  and  sublime 
instances  of  personification  in,  466. 
Book  of  proverbs,  467.  Lamentations 
of  Jeremiah,  ibid.     Book  of  Job,  468. 

Helen,  her  character  in  the  Iliad  examin- 
ed, 484. 

Hell,  the  various  descents  into,  given  by 
epic  poets,  show  the  gradual  improve- 
ment of  actions  concerning  a  future 
state,  501. 

Henriade.     See  Voltaire. 

Herodotus,  his  character  as  an  historian, 
397. 

Heroism,  sublime  instances  of  pointed  out, 
35. 

Harvey,  character  of  his  style,  204. 

Hieroglyphics,  the  second  stage  of  writing, 
73.     Of  Egypt,  ibid. 

Historians,  modern,  their  advantages  over 
the  ancient,  390.  Ancient  models  of, 
393.  The  objects  of  their  duty,  394. 
Character  of  Polybius,  396.  Of  Thucy- 
dides,  ibid.  Of  Herodotus  and  Thuanus, 
397.  Primary  qualities  necessary  in  an 
historian,  398.  Character  of  Livy  and 
Sallust,  399.  Of  Tacitus,  ibid.  Instruc- 
tions and  cautions  to  historians,  400. 
How  to  preserve  the  dignity  of  narra- 
tion, 401 .  How  to  render  it  interesting, 
402.  Danger  of  refining  too  much  in 
drawing  characters,  404.  Character  of 
the  Italian  historians,  406.  The  French 
•*nd  English,  407. 
iislory,  the  proper  object  and  end  of,  394. 
True,  the  characters  of,  ibid.  The  dif- 
ferent classes  of,  395.  General  history, 
the  proper  conduct  of,  ibid.  The  ne- 
cessary qualities  of  historical  narration, 
401.  The  propriety  of  introducing  ora- 
tions in  history,  examined,  405.  And 
characters,  ibid.  The  Italians  the  best 
modern  historians,  406.  See  Annals, 
Biography,  Memoirs,  and  Novels. 

Hogarth,  his  analysis  of  beauty  consider- 
ed, 6i. 

Homer,  not  Acquainted  with  poetry  as  a 
systematic  art,  27.  Did  not  possess  a 
refined  taste,  30.  Instances  of  sublimi- 
ty in,  41.  Is  remarkable  for  the  use  of 
Dersonification,  175.  Story  of  the  Iliad, 
482.  Remarks  on,  ibid.  His  inven- 
tion and  judgment  in  the  conduct  of 
the  poem,  483.  Advantages  and  de- 
fects arising  from  his  narrative  speeches, 
ibid.  His  character,  484.  His  machi- 
nery, 485.  His  style,  48C.  His  skill 
in  narrative  description,  487.    His  simi- 


les, ibid.  General  chara<ter  of  hit 
Odyssey,  488.  Defects  of  the  Odyssey, 
ibid.     Compared  with  Virgil,  489. 

Hooker,  a  specimen  of  his  style,  200. 

Horace,  figurative  passages  cited  from,  153 
Instance  of  mixed  metaphor  in,  165. 
Crowded  metaphors,  166.  His  charac- 
ter as  a  poet,  393,  445.  Was  the  refor- 
mer of  satire,  450. 

Humour,  why  the  English  possess  their 
quality  more  eminently  than  other  na- 
tions, 540. 

Hyperbole,  an  explanation  of  that  figure, 
169.  Cautions  for  the  use  of,  170.  Two 
kinds  of,  ibid. 

I. 

Ideas,  abstract,  entered  into  the  first  for- 
mation of  language,  80. 

Jeremiah,  his  poetical  character,  468.  See 
Lamentations. 

Iliad,  story  of,  482.  Remarks  on,  ibid. 
The  principal  characters,  484.  Machi- 
nery of,  485. 

Imagination,  the  pleasures  of,  as  specified 
by  Mr.  Addison,  31.  The  powers  of, 
to  enlarge  the  sphere  of  our  pleasure,  a 
striking  instance  of  divine  benevolence, 
ibid.  Is  the  source  of  figurative  lan- 
guage 147,  151. 

Imitation,  considered  as  a  source  of  plea- 
sure to  taste,  55.  And  description  dis- 
tinguished, 67. 

Inferences  from  a  sermon,  the  proper  man- 
agement of,  364. 

Infinity  of  space,  numbers,  or  duration  af- 
fect the  mind  with  sublime  ideas,  32. 

Interjections,  the  first  elements  of  speech, 
60. 

Interrogation,  instances  of  the  happy  use 
and  effect  of,  189.  Mode  of  their  ope- 
ration, ibid.     Rule  for  using,  190. 

Job,  exemplification  of  the  sublimity  of 
obscurity  in  the  book  of,  34.  Remarks 
on  the  style  of,  460.  The  subject  and 
poetry  of,  468.  Fine  passage  from, 
469. 

Johnson,  his  character  of  Dryden's  prose 
style,  200,  note.  His  remarks  on  the 
style  of  Swift,  250,  note.  His  character 
of  Thompson,  454,  note.  His  character  of 
Dryden's  comedies,  541,  note.  His  char- 
acter of  Congreve,  542. 

Jonson,  Ben,  his  character  as  a  dramatic 
poet,  540. 

Isceus,  the  rhetorician,  his  character,  270. 

Isaiah,  sublime  representation  of  the  Deity 
in,  40.  His  description  of  the  fall  of  the 
Assyrian  empire,  180.  His  metaphors 
suited  to  the  climate  of  Judea,  463,  464. 
His  character  as  a  poet,  468. 

Isocrates,  the  rhetorician,  his  character, 
269. 

Judea,  temarks  on  the  climate  and  natural 
circumstances  of  that  country,  463. 

Judicial  orations,  what,  284. 

Juvenal,  a  character  of  his  satires,  450. 


INDEX. 


55\ 


K. 

njtt»meJ,Lord,  his  severe  censures  of  English 
comedies,  543. 

Knighl  errantry,  foundation  of  the  roman- 
ces concerning-,  418. 

Knowledge  an  essential  requisite  for  elo- 
quence, 380.  The  progress  of,  in  favour 
of  the  moderns,  upon  a  comparison  with 
the  ancients,  391.  The  acquisition  of, 
difficult  in  former  ages,  392. 
L. 

Lamentations  of  Jeremiah,  the  most  perfect 
elegiac  composition  in  the  sacred  scrip- 
tures, 467. 

Landscape,  considered  as  an  assemblage  of 
beautiful  objects,  418. 

Language,  the  improvement  of,  studied 
even  by  rude  nations,  9.  In  what  the 
true  improvement  of  language  consists, 
10.  Importance  of  the  study  of  language 
ibid-  Defined,  59.  The  present  refine- 
ments of,  ibid.  Origin  and  progress  of, 
60.  The  first  elements  of,  ibid.  Ana- 
logy between  words  and  things,  61.  The 
great  assistance  afforded  by  gestures, 
63.  The  Chinese  language,  64.  The 
Greek  and  Roman  languages,  ibid.  Ac- 
tion much  used  by  ancient  orators,  64. 
Roman  pantomimes,  65.  Great  differ- 
ence between  ancient  and  modern  pro- 
nunciation, ibid.  Figures  of  speech  the 
origin  of,  66.  Figurative  style  of  Ame- 
rican languages,  67.  Cause  of  the  de- 
cline of  figurative  language,  ibid.  The 
natural  and  original  arrangement  of 
words  in  speech,  68.  The  arrangement 
of  words  in  modern  languages,  different 
from  that  of  the  ancients,  70.  An  exem- 
plification, ibid.  Summary  of  the  fore- 
going observations,  72.  Its  wonderful 
powers,  155.  All  language  strongly 
tinctured  with  metaphor,  158.  In  mo- 
dern productions,  often  better  than  the 
subjects  of  them,  260.  Written  and  oral, 
distinction  between,  383.  See  Grammar, 
Style,  and  Writing. 

Latin  language,  the  pronunciation  of, 
musical  and  gesticulating,  64,  136.  The 
natural  arrangement  of  words  in,  69. 
The  want  of  articles  a  defect  in,  81. 
Remarkson  words  deemed  synonymous 
in,  108. 

Learning,  an  essential  requisite  for  elo- 
quence, 380. 

Lebanon,  metaphorical  allusions  to,  in  He- 
brew poetry,  464. 

fee,  extravagant  hyperbole  quoted  from, 
171.  His  character  as  a  tragic  poet, 
531. 

Liberty,  the  nurse  of  true  genius,  265. 

Literary  composition,  importance  of  the 
study  of  language,  preparatory  to,  11. 
The  beauties  of,  indefinite,  54.  To  what 
class  the  pleasures  received  from  elo- 
quence, poetry  and  line  writing,  are  to 


be  referred,  56.  The  beauties  of,  not 
dependant  on  tropes  and  figures,  192. 
The  different  kinds  of  distinguished,  394. 
See  History,  Poetry,  &lc. 

Licy,  his  character  as  an  historian,  399, 
402. 

Locke,  general  character  of  his  style,  202. 
The  style  of  his  Treatise  on  Human  Un- 
derstanding, compared  with  the  writings 
of  Lord  Shaftesbury,  41 1. 

Longinus,  strictures  on  his  Treatise  on  the 
Sublime,  38.  His  account  of  the  conse- 
quences of  liberty,  265.  Hissenteutious 
opinion  of  Homer's  Odyssey,  488. 

Lopez  dela  Vega,  his  character  as  a  drama- 
tic poet,  538. 

Love,  too  much  importance  and  frequency 
allowed  to,  on  the  modern  stage,  521. 

Loictk's  English  Grammar  recommended, 
101,  note,  124,  note.  His  character  of  the 
prophet  Ezekiel,  468. 

Lucan,  instances  of  his  destroying  a  sub- 
lime expression  of  C*sar,  by  amplifica- 
tion, 43.  Extravagant  hyperbole  from, 
171.  Critical  examination  of  his  Phar- 
salia,  493.  The  subject,  ibid.  Charac 
ters  and  conduct  of  the  story,  494. 

Lucian,  character  of  his  dialogues,  413. 

Lucretius,  his  sublime  representation  of  the 
dominion  of  superstition  over  mankind, 
34,  note.  The  most  admired  passages  in 
his  Treatise  De  Rerum  Natura,  449. 

Lusiad.     See  Camoens. 

Lyric  poetry,  the  peculiar  character  of, 
443.  Four  classes  of  odes,  444.  Char- 
acters of  the  most  eminent  lyric  poets, 
445. 

Lysias,  the  rhetorician,  his  character,  270. 
M. 

Machiavel,  his  character  as  an  historian, 
406. 

Machinery,  the  great  use  of  in  epic  poetry, 
478.    Cautions  for  the  use  of,  479,  485. 

Mackenzie, Sir  George,  instance  of  regular 
climax  in  his  proceedings,  IP  1. 

Man,  by  nature  both  a  poet  and  musician, 
423. 

Marivaux,  a  character  of  his  novels,  420. 

Marmontel,  his  comparative  remarks  on 
French,  English,  and  Italian  p.jer»v 
431,  note. 

Marsy,  Fr.  his  contrast  between  the  cha- 
racters of  Corneille  and  Racine,  529, 
note. 

Massillon,  extracts  from  a  celebrated  ser- 
mon of  his,  323,  note.  Enconrun  on, 
by  Louis  XIV.  326.  His  artful  divi- 
sion  of  a  text,  350. 

Memoirs,  their  class  in  historical  composi- 
tion assigned,  408.  Why  the  French 
are    fond  of  this  kind  of  writing,  ibid. 

Melalepsis,  in  figurative  language  explain 
ed,  156. 

Metaphor,  in  figurative  style,  explained, 
157,  158.     All  language  strongly  tinct 


552 


INDEX. 


ured  with,  159.  Approaches  the  nearest 
to  painting-  of  all  (he  figures  of  speech, 
ibid.  Rules  to  be  observed  in  the  con- 
duct of,  160.     See  Allegory. 

Metastasio,  his  character  as  a  dramatic 
writer,  529. 

Melonomy,  in  figurative  style,  explained, 
159. 

Mexico,  historical  pictures  the  records  of 
that  empire,  73. 

Milo,  narrative  of  the  encounter  between 
him  and  Clodius,  by  Cicero,  351. 

Milton,  instances  of  sublimity  in,  33,  44, 
46.  Of  harmony,  135,  144.  Hyperboli- 
cal sentiments  of  Satan  in,  170.  Striking 
instances  of  personification  in,  175, 176. 
Excellence  of  his  descriptive  poetry, 454. 
Who  the  proper  hero  of  his  Paradise 
Lost,  478.  Critical  examination  of  this 
poem,  503.  His  sublimity  characterized, 
505.  His  language  and  versification, 
tbid. 

Moderns.     See  Ancients. 

Moliere,  his  character  as  a  dramatic  poet, 
539. 

Monboddo,hord,  his  observations  on  Eng- 
lish and  Latin  verse,  429,  note. 

Monotony  in  language,  often  the  result  of 
too  great  attention  to  musical  arrange- 
ment, 141. 

Montague,  Lady  Mary  Wortley,  a  charac- 
ter of  her  epistolary  style,  417. 

Montesquieu,  character  of  his  style,  154. 

Monumental  inscriptions,  the  numbers  suit- 
ed to  the  style,  145. 

Moralt,  M.  his  severe  censure  of  Erflish 
comedy,  543. 

More,  Dr.  Henry,  character  of  his  divine 
dialogues,  413. 

Motion,  considered  as  a  source  of  beauty, 
52. 

Motte,  M.  de  la,  his  observations  on  lyric 
poetry,  445,  note.  Remarks  on  his  cri- 
ticism on  Homer,  483. 

Music,  its  influence  on  the  passions,  423. 
Its  union  with  poetry,  ibid.     Their  se- 
paration injurious  to  each,  427. 
N. 

Naivete",  import  of  that  French  term, 
207. 

Narration,  an  important  point  in  pleadings 
at  the  bar,  350. 

Night  scenes  commonly  sublime,  33. 

Nomic  melody  of  the  Athenians,  what, 
137. 

Novels,  a  species  of  writing,nnt  so  insignifi- 
cant as  may  be  imagined,  416.  Might 
be  employed  for  very  useful  purposes, 
417.  Rise  and  progress  of  fictitious 
history,  418.  Characters  of  the  most 
celebrated  romances  and  novels,  419. 

Novelty,  considered  as  a  source  of  beauty, 
55. 

Nouns,  substantive,  the  foundation  of  all 
grammar,  79.  Number,  gender,  and 
cases  of,  83. 


Obscurity,  not  unfavourable  to  sublimity, 
34.  Of  style,  owing  to  indistinct  concep- 
tions, 102. 

Ode,  the  nature  of  defined,  443.  Four 
distinctions  of,  444.  Obscurity  anrd  ir- 
regularity, the  great  faults  in,  ibid. 

Odyssey,  general  character  of,  488.  De- 
fects of,  ibid. 

(Edipvs,  an  improper  character  for  the 
stage,  521. 

Orators,  ancient,  declaimed  in  recitative,  64. 

Orations,  the  three  kinds  of,  distinguished 
by  the  ancients,  284.  The  present  dis- 
tinctions of,  285.  Those  in  popular 
assemblies  considered,  ibid.  Prepared 
speeches  not  to  be  trusted  to,  287  Ne- 
cessary degrees  of  premeditation,  ibid. 
Method,  288.  Style  and  expression, 
ibid.  Impetuosity,  289.  Attention  to 
decorums,  290.  Delivery,  292,  365. 
The  several  parts  of  a  regular  oration, 
341.  Introduction,  342.  Introduction 
to  replies,  347.  Introduction  toseimons, 
ibid.  Division  of  a  discourse,  348. 
Rules  for  dividing  it,  349.  Explication, 
350.  The  argumentative  part,  353.  The 
pathetic,  358.  The  peroration,  364.  Vir- 
tue neces«ary  to  the  perfection  of  elo- 
quence, 316.  Description  of  a  true  ora- 
tor, 380.  Qualifications  foi,  ibid.  The 
best  ancient  writers  on  oratory,  385, 
393.  The  use  made  of  orations  by  the 
ancient  historians,  405.    See  Elwpitnce. 

Oriental  poetry,  more  characteristical  oj 
«n  age  than  of  a  eo-intry,  424.  Style 
of  scripture  language,  67. 

Orlando  Furioso.     See  Ariosto. 

Ossian,  instances  of  sublimity  in  his  works, 
42.  Correct  metaphors,  164.  Confu- 
sed mixture  of  metaphorical  and  plain 
language  in,  ibid.  Fine  apostrophe,  180. 
Delicate  simile,  183.  Lively  descrip- 
tions in,  ibid. 

Otway,  his  character  as  a  tragic  poet,  513. 
P. 

Pantomime,  an  entertainment  of  Roman 
origin,  65. 

Parables,  Eastern,  their  general  vehicle  for 
the  conveyance  of  truth,  465. 

Paradise  Lost,  critical  review  of  that 
poem,  503.  The  characters  in,  504. 
Sublimity  of,  505.  Language  and  ver- 
sification, ibid. 

Parenthesis,  cautions  for  the  use  of  there 
121. 

Paris,  his  character  in  th«  Iliad,  exam- 
ined, 485. 

Parliament  of  Great-Britain,  why  elo- 
quence has  never  been  so  powerful  an 
instrument  in,  as  in  the  ancient  popular 
assemblies  of  Greece  and  Rome,  283. 

Parnel.  his  character  as  a  descriptive  poet, 
454.' 

Particles,  cautions  for  the  useof  them,  124. 
Ought  never  to  close  sentences,  130. 


INDEX. 


553 


Passion,  the  source  of  oratory,  264. 

Passiom,  when  and  how  to  be  adaressed 
t/  orators,  358.  The  orator  must  feel 
emotions  before  he  can  communicate 
them  to  others,  360.  The  language  of> 
361.  Poets  address  themselves  to  the 
passions,  423. 

Pastoral  poetry,  inquiry  into  its  origin,  433. 
A  threefold  view  of  pastoral  life,  434. 
Rules  for  pastoral  writing,  ibid.  Its 
scenery,  435.  Characters,  437.  Sub- 
jects, 438.  Comparative  merit  of  an- 
cient pastoral  writers,  439.  And  of 
moderns,  440. 

Pathetic,  the  proper  management  of,  in  a 
discourse,  358  Fine  instance  of  from 
Cicero,  362. 

Pauses,  the  due  use  of,  in  public  speaking, 
370.     In  poetry,  371,430. 

Pericles,  the  first  who  brought  eloquence 
to  any  degree  of  perfection,  368.  His 
general  character,  ibid. 

Period.     See  Sentence. 

Personification,  the  peculiar  advantages  of 
the  English  language  in,  83.  Limitations 
of  gender  in,  84.  Objections  against 
the  practice  of,  answered,  172.  The  dis- 
position to  animate  the  objects  about  us, 
natural  to  mankind,  173.  This  dispo- 
sition may  account  for  the  number  of 
heathen  divinities,  ibid.  Three  degrees 
of  this  figure,  174.  Rules  lor  the  man- 
agement of  the  highest  degree  of,  177. 
Cautions  for  the  use  of  in  prose  compo- 
sitions, 178.     See  Apostrophe. 

Perseus,  a  character  of  his  satires,  450. 

Perspicuity,  essential  to  a  good  style,  102. 
Not  merely  a  negative  virtue,  103.  The 
three  qualities  of,  ibid. 

Persuasion,  distinguished  from  conviction, 
262.  Objection  brought  from  the  abuse 
of  this  art,  answered,  ibid  Rules  for, 
286. 

Peruvians,  their  method  of  transmitting 
their  thoughts  to  each  other,  74. 

Pecronius  Arbiter,  his  address  to  the  de- 
claimers  of  his  time,  279. 

Pharsalia.     See  Lucan. 

Pherecydes  of  Sycros,  the  first  prose  wri- 
ter, 68. 

Philips,  character  of  his  pastorals,  441. 

Philosophers,  modern,  tlieir  superiority 
over  the  ancient,  unquestionable,  390. 

Philosophy,  the  proper  style  of  writing 
adapted  to,  410.  Proper  embellishment 
for,  ibid. 

Pictures,  the  first  essay  toward  writing,  72. 

Pindar,  his  chai  acter  as  a  lyric  poet,  445. 

Pilcairn,  Dr.  extravagant  hyperbole  cited 
from,  172. 

Plato,  character  of  his  dialogues,  412. 

Plautus,  his  character  as  a  dramatic  poet, 
538. 

Pleaders  at  the  bar,  instruction  to,  301, 
350. 

Plinil's    letters,  general  character  of,  415. 


4L 


Plutarch,  his  character  as  a  biographer, 
409. 

Poetry,  in  what  sense  descriptive,  and  in 
what  imitative,  57.  Is  more  ancient 
than  prose,  67.  Source  of  the  pleasure 
we  receive  from  the  figurative  style  of, 
176.  Test  of  the  merit  of,  185.  Whence 
the  difficulty  of  reading  poetry  arises, 
371.  Compared  with  oratory,  377. 
Epic,  the  standards  of,  393.  Definition 
of  poetry,  421.  Is  addressed  to  the  ima- 
gination and  the  passions,  422.  Its  ori- 
gin, ibid.  In  what  sense  older  than 
prose,  422.  Its  union  with  music,  423 
Ancient  history  and  instructions  first 
conveyed  in  poptry,  424.  Oriental, 
more  characteristical  of  an  age  than  of 
a  country,  ibid.  Gothic,  Celtic,  and 
Grecian,  425.  Origin  of  the  different 
kinds  of,  426.  Was  more  vigorous  in 
its  first  rude  essays  than  under  refine- 
ment, 427.  Was  injured  by  the  separa- 
tion of  music  from  it,  ibid.  Metrical 
feet,  invention  of,  428.  These  measures 
not  applicable  to  English  poetry,  429. 
English  heroic  verse,  the  structure  of, 
430.  French  poetry,  ibid.  Rhyme  and 
blank  verse  compared,  431.  Progress 
of  English  versification,  432.  Pastorals, 
433.  Lyrics,  443.  Didactic  poetry, 
447.  Descriptive  poetry,  452.  Hebrew 
poetry,  459.  Epic  poetry,  470.  Poetic 
characters,  two  kinds  of,  478.  Dramat- 
ic poetry,  507. 

Pointing  cannot  correct  a  confused  sen 
tence,  121. 

Politics,  the  science  of,  why  ill  understood 
among  the  ancients,  398. 

Polybius,  his  character  as  an  historian, 
396. 

Pope,  criticism  on  a  passage  in  his  Homer, 
43.  Prose  specimen  from,  consisting  of 
short  sentences,  113.  Other  specimens 
of  his  style,  127,  132.  Confused  mix 
tures  of  metaphorical  and  plain  Ian 
guage  in,  163.  Mixed  metaphor  in,  166 
Confused  personification,  178.  Instanri 
of  his  fondness  for  antithesis,  183 
Character  of  his  epistolary  writings,  4 16 
Criticism  on,  ibid.  Construction  of  1m 
verse,  430.  Peculiar  character  of  his 
versification,  432.  His  pastorals,  438, 
440.  His  ethic  epistles,  451.  The  merit 
of  his  various  poems  examined,  ibid. 
Character  of  his  translation  of  Homer, 
486. 

Precision  in  language,  in  what  it  consists, 
104.  The  importance  of,  ibid,  114.  Re- 
quisite to,  111. 

Prepositions,  whether  more  ancient  than 
the  declension  of  nouns  by  cases,  85 
Whether  more  useful  and  beautiful,  86. 
Dr.  Campbell's  observations  on,  87, 
Their  great  use  in  speech,  94. 

Prior,  allegory  cited  f.oin,  168. 

Pronouns,  their  use,  varieties,  and  cases, 


70 


554 


INDEX. 


87.  Relative  instances  illustrating  the 
importance  of  their  proper  position  in  a 
sentence,  1 16. 

Pronunciation,  distinctness  of,  necessary 
in  public  speaking,  367.     Tones  of,  372. 

Proverbs,  book  of,  a  didactic  poem,  497. 

Psalm  xviii.  sublime  representation  of  the 
Deity  in,  39.  lxxxth,  a  fine  allegory 
from,  168.  Remarks  on  the  poetic  con- 
struction of  the  Psalms,  461,  464. 

Pulpit,  eloquence  of  the.  defined,  263. 
English  and  French  sermons  compared, 
281.  The  practice  of  reading  sermons 
in  England,  disadvantageous  to  oratory, 
283.  The  art  of  persuasion  resigned  to 
the  Puritans,  ibid.  Advantages  and  dis- 
advantages of  pulpit  eloquence,  312. 
Rules  for  p*.eaching,  313.  The  chief 
characteristics  of  pulpit  eloquence,  316. 
Whether  it  is  best  to  read  sermons  or 
deliver  them  extempore,  321.  Pronun- 
ciation, 322.  Remarks  on  French  ser- 
mons, ibid.  Cause  of  the  dry  argumen- 
tative style  of  English  sermons,  324. 
General  observations,  325. 

Pisistratus,  the  first  who  cultivated  the  arts 
of  speech,  267. 

Q. 

Quintilian,his  ideas  of  taste,  17,  note.  His 
account  of  the  ancient  division  of  the 
several  parts  of  speech,  79,  note.  His 
remarks  on  the  importance  of  the  study 
of  grammar,  94.  On  perspicuity  of 
style,  102,  108.  On  climax,  129.  On 
the  structure  of  sentences,  131.  Which 
ought  not  to  offend  the  ear,  134,  140. 
His  caution  against  too  great  an  atten- 
tion to  harmony,  141.  His  caution 
against  mixed  metaphor,  164.  His  fine 
apostrophe  on  the  death  of  his  son,  180. 
His  rule  for  the  use  of  similes,  186.  His 
direction  for  the  use  of  figures  of  stylo, 
193.  His  distinction  of  style,  196,  203. 
His  instructions  for  good  writing,  213. 
His  character  of  Cicero's  oratory,  204. 
His  instructions  to  public  speakers  for 
preserving  decorum,  291.  His  instruc- 
tions to  judicial  pleaders,  301.  His  ob- 
servarions  on  exordiums  to  replies  in  de- 
bate, 347.  On  the  proper  division  of  an 
oration,  348.  His  mode  of  addressing 
the  passions,  357.  His  lively  represen- 
tations of  the  effects  of  depravity,  379. 
Is  the  best  ancient  writer  on  oratory, 
386. 

R 

Murine,  his  character  as  a  tragic  poet,  528. 

Ramsay,  Allan,  character  of  his  Gentle 
Shepherd,  442. 

Rapin,  P.  remarks  on  his  parallels  be- 
tween Greek  and  Roman  writers,  277. 

Retz,  Cardinal  de,  character  of  his  Me- 
moirs, 408. 

Rhetoricians,  Grecian,  rise  »nd  character 
of,  268. 

Rh\me,  in  English  verse,  unfavourable  to 


sublimity,  43.  And  blank  verse  com 
parad,  431.  The  former,  why  improper 
in  the  Greek  and  Latin  languages,  ^32. 
The  first  introduction  of  couplets  hi 
English  poetry,  ibid. 

Richardson,  a  character  of  his  novels,  420. 

Ridicule,  an  instrument  often  misapplied, 
533. 

Robinson  Crusoe,  a  character  of  that  no 
vel,  420. 

Romance,  derivation  of  the  term,  418.  See 
Novels. 

Romans,  derived  their  learning  from 
Greece,  273.  Comparison  between  them 
and  the  Greeks,  274  Historical  view 
of  their  eloquence,  ibid.  Oratorical 
character  of  Cicero,  274.  Era  of  the 
decline  of  eloquence  among,  278. 

Rosseau,  Jean  Baptiste,  his  character  as  a 
lyric  poet,  446. 

Rowe,  his  character  as  a  tragic  poet,  532. 
S. 

Sallust,  his  character  as  an  historian,  399. 

Sanazarius,  his  piscatory  eclogues,  440. 

Satan,  examination  of  his  character  in 
Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  504. 

Satire,  poetical,  general  remarks  on  the 
style  of,  449. 

Saxon  language,  how  established  in  Eng- 
land, 95. 

Scenes,  dramatic,  what,  and  the  proper 
conduct  of,  516. 

Scriptures,  sacred,  the  figurative  style  of, 
remarked,  67.  The  translators  of,  hap- 
py in  suiting  their  numbers  to  the  sub- 
ject, 143.  Fine  apostrophe  in,  180. 
Presents  us  with  the  most  ancient  monu- 
ments of  poetry  extant,  459.  The  di- 
versity of  style  in  the  several  books  of, 
ibid.  The  Psalms  of  David,  460.  No 
other  writings  abound  with  such  bold 
and  animated  figures,  463.     Parables 

466.  Bold  and  sublime  instances  of  per 
sonification  in,  tbid.  Book  of  Proverbs, 

467.  Lamentations  of  Jeremiah,  ibid 
Scuderi,  Madam,  her  romances,  419. 
Seiieca,  his  frequent  antithesis  censured, 

187.  Character  of  his  general  style, 
198.  His  epistolary  writings,  41 1. 
Sentence,  in  language,  definition  of,  112. 
Distinguished  into  long  and  short,  113. 
A  variety  in, to  be  studied,  ibid.  The 
properties  essential  to  a  perfect  sentence, 
114.  A  principal  rule  for  arranging 
the  members  of,  115.  Position  of  ad- 
verbs, ibid.  And  relative  pronouns, 
116.  Unity  of  a  sentence,  rules  for  pre 
serving,  119.  Pointing,  121.  P:iren 
thesis,  ibid.  Should  always  be  brought 
to  a  perfect  close,  122.  Strength,  123. 
Should  be  cleared  of  redundancies,  ibid. 
Due  attention  to  particles  recommend 
ed,  124.  The  omission  of  particles 
sometimes  connects  objects  closer  to- 
gether, 126.  Directions  for  placing  the 
important  words,  ibid.      Climax,  129 


INDEX. 


555 


A  like  order  necessary  to  be  observed 
in  all  assertions  of  propositions,  130. 
Sentence  ought  not  to  conclude  with  a 
feeble  word,  ibid.  Fundamental  rule  in 
the  construction  of,  133.  Sound  not  to 
be  disregarded,  134.  Two  circumstan- 
ces to  be  attended  to,  for  producing  har- 
mony in,  134,  139.  Rules  of  the  ancient 
rhetoiieians  for  this  purpose,  135.  Why 
harmony  much  less  studied  now  than 
formerly,  136.  English  words  cannot 
be  so  exactly  measured  by  metrical  feet, 
as  those  of  Greek  and  Latin,  139.  What 
required  for  the  musical  close  of  a  sen- 
ten'"p  141.  Unmeaning  words  introduc- 
ed merely  to  round  a  sentence,  a  great 
blemish,  ibid.  Sounds  ought  to  be  adapt- 
ed to  sense,  142. 

Sermons,  English  compared  with  French, 
281.  Unity  an  indispensable  requisite 
in,  316.  The  subject  ought  to  be  precise 
and  particular,  317.  The  subject  ought 
not  to  be  exhausted,  ibid.  Cautions 
against  dryness,  318.  And  against  con- 
forming to  fashionable  modes  of  preach- 
ing, 319.  Style,  320.  Quaint  expres- 
sions, 321.  Whether  best  written  or 
delivered  extempore,  ibid.  Delivery, 
322.  Remarks  on  French  sermons,  ibid. 
Cause  of  the  dry  argumentative  style 
of  English  sermons,  325.  General  ob- 
servations, ibid.  Remarks  on  the  pro- 
per division  of,  347.  Conclusion,  364. 
Delivery,  365. 

Sevignd,  Madame  de,  character  of  her  let- 
ters, 416. 

Shaftesbury,  Lord,  observations  on  his 
style,  106,  113,  120,  127,  129,  142, 166. 
His  general  character  as  a  writer,  209. 

Shakspeare,  the  merit  of  his  plays  exam- 
ined, 28.  Was  not  possessed  of  refined 
taste,  29.  Instance  of  his  improper  use 
of  metaphors,  161,  164,  165.  Exhibits 
passions  in  the  language  of  nature,  524. 
His  character  as  a  tragic  poet,  530.  As 
a  comic  poet,  541. 

Shenstone,  his  pastoral  ballad,  441. 

Shepherd,  the  proper  character  of,  in  pas- 
toral description,  437. 

S!ieridan,h\s  distinction  between  ideas  and 
emotions,  373,  note. 

Sherlock,  Bishop,  fine  instance  of  personi- 
fication cited  from  his  sermons,  174.  A 
happy  allusion  cited  from  his  sermons, 
320.  note. 

Silius  Italicus.  his  sublime  representation 
of  Hannibal,  36,  note. 

Simile,  distinguished  from  metaphor,  158, 
182.  Sources  of  the  pleasure  they  afford, 
ibid.  Two  kinds  of,  ibid.  Requisites 
m,  183.  Rules  for,  185.  Local  proprie- 
ty to  be  adhered  to  in,  213. 

Simplicili/  applied  to  style,  different  senses 
of  the  term,  382. 

Smollett,  improper  use  of  figurative  style, 
cited  from  nim,  126,  note. 


Solomon's  song,  descriptive  beauties  of,  456 

Songs,  Runic,  the  origin  of  Gothic  history 
ibid. 

Sophists  of  Greece,  rise  and  character  of, 
269. 

Sophocles,  the  plots  of  his  tragedies  re- 
markably simple,  512.  Excelled  in  the 
pathetic,  524.  His  character  as  a  tra- 
gic poet,  526. 

Sorrow,  why  the  emotions  of,  excited  by 
tragedy,  communicate  pleasure,  515. 

Sounds,  of  an  awful  nature,  affect  us  with 
sublimity,  32.  Influence  of,  in  the  for- 
mation of  words,  61. 

Speaker,  public,  must  be  directed  more  by 
his  ear  than  by  rules,  138. 

Spectator,  general  character  of  that  publi- 
cation, 216.  Critical  examination  of 
those  papers  that  treat  of  the  pleasures 
of  the  imagination,  217. 

Speech,  the  power  of,  the  distinguishing 
privilege  of  mankind,  9.  The  grammati- 
cal division  of,  into  eight  parts,  not  lo- 
gical, 79.  Of  the  ancients,  regulated 
by  musical  rules,  136. 

Strada,  his  character  as  an  historian,  406. 

Style,  in  language,  defined,  101.  The  dif- 
ference of,  in  different  countries,  ibid. 
The  qualities  of  a  good  style,  102.  Per 
spicuity,  ibid.  Obscurity,  owing  to  in- 
distinct conceptions,  103.  Three  requi- 
site qualities  in  perspicuity,  ibid.  Pre 
cision,  104.  A  loose  style,  from  what 
it  proceeds,  105.  Too  great  an  atten- 
tion to  precision,  renders  a  style  dry  and 
barren,  111.  French  distinction  of 
style,  113.  The  characters  of,  flow  from 
peculiar  modes  of  thinking,  195.  Dif- 
ferent subjects  require  a  different  style, 
ibid.  Ancient  distinctions  of,  196.  The 
different  kinds  of,  ibid.  Concise  and 
diffusive,  on  what  occasions  proper,  196. 
Nervous  and  feeble,  199.  A  harsh  style, 
from  what  it  proceeds,  ibid.  Era  of  the 
formation  of  our  present  style,  200. 
Dry  manner  described,  201.  A  plain 
style,  ibid.  Neat  style,  202.  Elegant 
style,  203.  Florid  style,  203.  Natural 
style,  205.  Different  senses  of  the  term 
simplicity,  ibid.  The  Greek  writers  dis- 
tinguished for  simplicity,  207.  Vehe- 
ment styb,  211.  General  directions 
how  to  attain  a  good  style,  212.  Imita- 
tion dangerous,  214.  Style  not  to  be 
studied  to  the  neglect  of  thoughts,  215. 
Critical  examination  of  those  papers  in 
the  Spectator  that  treat  of  the  pleasures 
of  imagination,  217.  Critical  examina- 
tion of  a  passage  in  Swift's  writings, 250. 
General  observations,  259.  See  Elo- 
quence. 

Sublimity  of  external  objects,  and  sublimi- 
ty '.n  writing  distinguished  32.  Its  im- 
pressions, ibid.  Of  space,  ib.  Of  sounds, 
32.  Violence  of  the  elements,  32.  So- 
lemnity, bordering  on  the  terrible,  ibid. 


c>56 


INDEX. 


Obscurity,  not  unfavourable  to,  34.  In 
buildings,  35.  Heroism,  ibid.  Great 
virtue,  36.  Whether  there  is  any  one 
fundamental  quality  in  the  sources  of 
sublime,  ibid. 
Sublimity  in  writing,  310.  Errors  in  Lon 
ginus  pointed  out,  ibid.  The  most  an- 
cient writers  afford  the  most  striking  in- 
stances of  sublimity,  311.  Sublime  re- 
presentation of  the  Deity  in  Psalm  xviii. 
39.  And  in  the  prophet  Habakkuk,  40. 
In  Moses  and  Isaiah,  ibid.  Instances  of 
sublimity  in  Homer,  ibid.  In  Ossian, 
42.  Amplification  injurious  to  sublimi- 
ty, ibid.  Rhyme  in  English  verse  unfa- 
vourable to,  43.  Strength  essential  to 
sublime  writing,  44.  A  proper  choice 
of  circumstances  essential  to  sublime 
description,  45.  Strictures  on  Virgil's 
description  of  Mount  JEtna,  46.  The 
proper  sources  of  the  sublime,  47.  Sub- 
limity consists  in  the  thought,  not  in  the 
words,  48.  The  faults  opposed  to  the 
sublime,  ibid. 

Sully,  Duke  de,  character  of  his  memoirs, 
408. 

Superstition,  sublime  representation  of  its 
dominion  over  mankind, from  Lucretius, 
34,  note. 

Swift,  observations  on  his  style,  104,  111, 
120,  131, 142.  General  character  of  his 
style,  202.  Critical  examination  of  th; 
beginning  of  his  proposals  for  correct- 
ing, &.c.  the  English  tongue,  250.  Con- 
cluding observations,  25P.  His  lan- 
guage, 383.  Character  of  his  epistola- 
ry writing,  416. 

Syllables,  English,  cannot  be  exactly  mea- 
sured by  metrical  feet,  as  those  of  Greek 
and  Latin,  139. 

Synecdoche,  in  figurative  style,  explained. 
157. 

Synonymous  words,  observations  on,  108. 
T. 

Tacitus,  character  of  his  style,  197.  His 
character  as  an  historian,  402.  His  hap- 
py manner  of  introducing  incidental  ob- 
servations, ibid.  Instance  of  his  success- 
ful talent  in  historical  painting,  406 
His  defects  as  a  writer,  408. 

Tasso,  a  passage  from  his  Gierusalemme 
distinguished  by  the  harmony  of  num- 
bers, 145.  Strained  sentiments  in  his 
pastorals,  443.  Character  of  his  Auain- 
ta,  487.  Critical  examination  of  his 
poem,  496. 

Taste,  true,  the  uses  of  in  common  life,  14. 
Definition  of,  16.  Is  more  or  less  com- 
mon to  all  men,  17.  Is  an  improvable 
faculty,  18.  How  to  be  refined,  19.  Is 
assisted  by  reason,  19.  A  good  heart 
requisite  to  a  just  taste,  20.  Delicacy 
and  correctness  the  characters  of  perfect 
tnste,  ibid.  Whether  there  be  any  stan- 
dard of  taste,  22.  The  diversity  of,  in 
different  men.  no  evidence  of  their  tastes 


being  corrupted,  xbid.  The  test  of,  re 
ferred  to  the  concurring  voice  of  the  pol 
ished  part  of  mankind,  25.  Distinguish- 
ed from  genius,  29.  The  sources  of 
pleasure  in,  30.  The  powers  of,  enlarge 
the  sphere  of  our  pleasures,  31.  Imi 
tations  as  a  source  of  pleasure,  55.  Mu 
sic,  ibid.  To  what  class  the  pleasures 
received  from  eloquence,  poetry,  and 
fine  writing,  are  to  be  referred,  56. 

Telemachus.     See  Fenelon. 

Temple,  Sir  William,  observations  of  his 
style,  106.  Specimens,  113,  120,  122, 
125,  139.  His  general  character  as  a 
writer,  208. 

Terence,  beautiful  instance  of  simplicity 
from,  209.  His  character  as  a  dramatic 
writer,  538. 

Terminations  of  words,  the  variation  of, 
in  the  Greek  and  Latin  languages,  fa- 
vourable to  the  libertv  of  transposition, 
70. 

Theocritus,  the  earliest  known  writer  cl 
pastorals,  434.  His  talents  in  painting 
rurai  scenery,  435.  Character  of  his 
pastorals,  439. 

Thomson;  fine  passage  from,  where  he 
animates  all  nature,  176.  Character  of 
his  Seasons,  453.  His  eulogium  by  Dr. 
Johnson,  '.bid,  note. 

Thuar.us,  his  character  as  an  historian,  398. 

Thucydides,  his  character  as  an  historian, 
395.  Was  the  first  who  introduced  ora- 
tions in  historical  narration,  405. 

Tillolson,  Archbishop,  observations  on  his 
style.  106,  118,  139,  161.  General  cha- 
racter of  as  a  writer,  208. 

Tones,  the  due  management  of,  in  public 
speaking,  373. 

Topics,  among  the  ancient  rhetoricians, 
explained,  353. 

Tragedy,  how  distinguished  from  comedy, 
506.  More  particular  definition  of,  507. 
Subject  and  conduct  of,  508.  Rise  and 
progress  of,  509.  The  three  dramatic 
unities,  511.  Division  of  the  represen- 
tation into  acts,  513.  The  catastrophe, 
514.  Why  the  sorrow  excited  by  tra- 
gedy communicates  p"easures,  ibid. 
Proper  iden  of  scenes,  and  how  to  be 
conducted,  516.  Characters, 520.  High- 
er degrees  of  morality  inculcated  by  mo- 
dern than  by  ancient  tragedy,  521.  Too 
great  use  made  of  the  passion  of  love 
on  the  modern  stages,  ibid.  All  trage- 
dies expected  to  be  pathetic,  522.  The 
proper  use  of  moral  reflections  in  524. 
The  proper  style  and  versification,  525. 
Brief  view  of  the  Greek  stage,  526. 
French  tragedy,  528.  English  tragedy, 
530.     Concluding  observations,  532. 

Tropes,  a  definition  of,  148.  Origin  of,  150 
The  rhetorical  distinctions  among  frivo 
Ions,  156. 

Turnus,  the  character  of,  not  favourablj 
treated  in  the  iEneid,  491 


INDEX. 


537 


Turpin,  archbishop  of  Rheiras,  a  romance 
writer,  419. 

Typograji/tical  figures  of  speech,  what,  189. 
V. 

Vanburgh,  his  character  as  a  dramatic 
writer,  6-12. 

Verbs,  their  nature  and  office  explained, 
89.  No  sentence  complete  without  a 
verb,  expressed  cr  implied,  90.  The 
tenses,  ibid.  The  advantage  of  English 
over  the  Latin,  in  the  variety  of  tenses, 
91.  Active  and  passive,  ibid.  Are  the 
.<nost  artificial  and  complex  of  all  the 
parts  of  speech,  92. 

Verse,  blank,  more  favourable  to  sublimity 
than  rhyme,  43.  Instructions  for  the 
reading  of,  371.     Construction  of,  431. 

Virgil,  instances  of  si  blimity  in,  33,  45, 
46.  Of  harmony,  145,  146.  Simplicity 
of  language,  149.  Figurative  language, 
157,  174,  179.  Specimens  of  his  pasto- 
ral descriptions,  435,  nj/e,438.  Charac- 
ter of  his  pastorals,  439.  His  Geoigics, 
a  perfect  model  of  didactic  poetry,  447. 
Beautiful  descriptions  in  his  jEneid,456. 
Critical  examination  of  that  poem,  489. 
Compared  with  Homer,  491. 

Virtue,  high  degrees  of,  a  source  of  the 
sublime,  36.  A  necessary  ingredient  to 
form  an  eloquent  orator,  378. 

Vision,  the  figure  of  speech  so  termed,  in 
what  it  consists,  190. 

Unities,  dramatic,  the  advantages  of  ad- 
hering to,  511.  Why  the  moderns  are 
less  restricted  to  the  unities  of  time  and 
place  than  the  ancients,  518. 

Voice,  the  powers  of,  to  be  studied  in  pub- 
lic speaking,  366. 

Voilure,  character  of  his  epistolary  wri- 
tings, 416. 


Voltaire,hh  character  as  an  hisloria*i,409 
Critictti  examination  of  his  Henriaae, 
502.  His  argument  for  the  use  of  rhyme 
iu  dramatic  cairipcsition,  525.  Hia  cha> 
ranter  as  a  tragic  poet,  529. 

Vossius,  Joannes  Gerardus,  character  or' 
his  writings  on  eloquence,  385. 
W. 

Waller,  the  first  English  poet  who  broKgiii 
couplets  into  vogue,  432. 

Wit,  is  to  be  very  sparingly  used  at  tht 
bar,  304. 

Words,  obsolete,  and  new  coined,  incon- 
gruous with  purity  of  style,  103.  Bad 
consequences  of  their  being  ill  chosen; 
104.  Observations  ;>n  those  termed  sy 
nonymous,  108.  Considered  with  refer 
ence  to  sound,  134. 

Words,  and  things,  instances  of  the  ana- 
logy between,  61. 

Writers  of  genius,  why  they  have  bee* 
more  numerous  in  one  age  than  another, 
387.  Four  happy  ages  of,  pointed  ou\, 
388. 

Writing,  two  kinds  of,  distinguished,  72. 
Pictures,  the  first  essay  in,  ibid.  Hiero- 
glyphic, the  second,  73.  Chinese  cha- 
racters, 74.  Arithmetical  figures,  76. 
The  considerations  which  led  to  the  in- 
vention of  an  alphabet,  ibid.  Cadmus's 
alphabet  the  origin  of  that  now  used,  76. 
Historical  account  of  the  materials  used 
to  receive  writing, 77.  General  remarks, 
ibid.  See  Grammar. 
Y. 

Young,  Dr.  his  poetical  character,  167 
Too  fond  of  antithesis,  188.  The  raerf; 
of  his  works  examined,  451.  His  cha 
racter  as  a  tragic  poet,  632. 


THE  sim« 


KAY'S 

INFANT    AND    PRIMARY 

SCHOOL   SERIES. 

IN  THREE  VOLUMES. 

Ray's  Infant  and  Primary  School  Reader  and  Definer,  No.  1,  contain* 
no  word  of  more  than  Three  Letters,  and  comprises  all  the  words  of  Two 
and  Three  Letters  in  the  English  language. 

Every  Syllable  which  occurs  in  it,  or  the  Two  next  Volumes,  is  a  Complete  Word. 

The  Lessons  are  strictly,  and  by  very  gradual  steps,  Progressive. 

Each  single  Object  occurring  in  the  Lessons  is  represented  by  a  large  and 
handsome  Engraving  — upwards  of  100  in  number. 

All  the  Words  are  collected  in  Spilling  Columns,  and  are  classed  under  their 
vowel  sounds  according  to  Wa'ker's  Standard  —  the  «awe-sounds  first;  so  as 
to  teach  the  child  a  correct  Pronunciation  in  connexion  with  Orthography. 

Initiatory  Models  for  Drawing,  on  the  Slate  or  Paper,  are  also  furnished, 
to  form  a  taste  for  Design,  and  to  amuse  and  occupy  the  time  of  the  child  in 
the  intervals  of  his  Lessons. 

The  Author  recommends,  as  a  great  economy  in  time  and  a  delightful  method 
of  instruction,  that  the  child  should  be  taught  to  read  as  far  as  the  29th  page 
of  the  book,  before  he  is  made  acquainted  with  tne  letters,  or  rather  the  names 
of  the  letters,  of  the  alphabet.  This,  however,  is  left  to  the  discretion  of  the 
instructor :  the  book  is  suited  to  either  method  of  tuition. 

Kay's  Infant  and  Primary  School  Reader  and  Definer,  No.  2,  comprises 
Lessons  in  Prose  and  Poetry  in  words  of  One  Syllable  only,  from  the  easiest 
to  the  most  difficult;  with  numerous  Engravings  carefully  adapted  to  the  Text, 

The  Lessons  in  Drawing  are  carried  on  by  numerous  progressive  Models. 

In  the  Spelling  Department  the  woras  to  De  spelled  are  Monosyllables, 
accompanied  by  Definitions  also  in  words  of  One  Syllable;  and  the  Pronuncia- 
tion conforms  to  Walker,  and  makes  use  of  his  Notation. 

Exercises  in  Writing  are  also  given,  to  be  copied  on  the  Slate,  initiatory 
to  a  more  systematic  study  of  the  art.  Besides  which,  all  the  words  of  the 
Spelling  Lessons  are  repeated  in  tne  margin  in  the  writing  character;  the 
copying  of  which  will  ground  the  Orthography  in  the  mind  of  the  child,  and  show 
him  its  practical  value.     He  thereby  will  also  be  taught  to  read  manuscript. 

Kay's  Infant  and  Primary  School  Reader  and  Definer,  No.  3,  consists 
of  Lessons  in  Prose  and  Poetry  in  words  of  not  more  than  Two  Syllables  from 
the  easiest  to  the  most  difficult;  with  numerous  Pictorial  Embellishments. 
The  Lessons  in  Drawing  are  completed,  by  numerous  Progressive  Models 
The  Spelling,  Defining  and  Pronouncing  pages  consist,  and  thus  constitute  a 
Dictionary,  of  the  words  which  occur  in  the  preceding  Reading  Lessons ;  the 
Definitions  of  which  are  given  also  in  Dissyllables. 


Here  the  Series  closes  ;  as  the  Author  conceives  that  tne  Pupil  who  has  tho- 
roughly studied  these  little  volumes  will  readi'y  master  any  book  which  a 
eound  discretion  would  subsequently  place  in  hi.-:  hands. 

To  those  who  seek  to  encourage  a  familiarity  witn  tne  Anglo-Saxon  portion 
of  our  language,  these  books  will  be  a  desideratum;  as,  with  rare  exceptions, 
all  the  words  which  have  been  used  in  them  are  Saxon  in  their  derivation, 
and  constitute  therefore  the  staple  of  that  noble  language  which  is  destined  to 
be  the  mother  tongue  of  by  far  the  greater  part  of  this  vast  continent. 

These  volumes  are  remarkable  for  beauty  and  strength  of  Binding  and  Paper  ; 
elegance,  plainness  and  largeness  of  Typography  ;  and  frequency  and  appro- 
priateness of  Embellishments — in  all  400  in  number. 

Teachers  and  Parents  are  invited  to  examine  them ;  and  are  recommended  to 
peruse  the  Prefaces,  for  a  detailed  statement  of  their  peculiar  features. 


Kay's  Infant  and  Primary  School  Readers  and  Defners. 


Excerpts  from  Notices  by  the  Press. 


We  fearlessly  commend  these  books 
to  the  notice  of  Parents,  Teachers,  School 
Directors,  and  all  interested  in  the  subject 
of  Primary  Education. — Amer.  Sentinel. 

We  would  call  the  especial  attention  of 
Parents  and  Teachers  of  young  children  to 
hese  books.  —  National  Gazette. 

We  pronounce  the  plan  good,  and  the 
xecution  excellent. —  U.  S.  Gazette. 

The  arrangement  is  simple,  natural  and 
efficient,  and  the  first  volume  suited  to  the 
early  dawn  of  infancy. — Inquirer. 

We  are  bound  to  consider  these  as  the 
best  set  of  Primary  books  yet  issued.  — 
Metcalfe's  Star. 


We  do  not  see  how  it  is  possible  to  pre- 
pare a  more  admirable  system  for  the  pur- 
pose intended.  It  appears  to  have  been, 
compiled  by  a  master  hand. — Sat.  Courier. 

This  Series  is  beautifully  executed  .... 

So    various    and    comprehensive   a 

series,  and  one  so  cleverly  got  up,  has  not 
)  before  made  its  appearance. — Messenger. 

Mr  J.  Orville  Taylor,  of  New  York 
so  well  known  as  the  zealous  and  eloquent 
advocate  of  National  Education,  has  given 
these  books  his  strong  approval,  and  re- 
commends them,  in  preference  to  all  others, 
in  his  Public  Lectures. 


Excerpts  from  Critiques  by  50  Teachers. 

The  following  are  Excerpts  from  the  Testimonials  of  Teachers  now  in  tfca  possession  of  the 
Publishers,  which  are  printed  in  eztenso,  with  the  names  and  residences  a.  je  gentlemen,  in  a 
Prospectus  which  will  be  given  to  all  who  may  apply  for  it. 

' '  Some  of  its  features  are  as  novel  as 
they  are  valuable  ;  and  it  combines  more, 
for  the  size  and  price,  than  any  thing  of  the 
kind  which  has  fallen  under  my  notice." 

"  I  have  looked  through  the  Series  with 
great  satisfaction.  The  progressive  theory 
which  you  have  adopted  is  excellently 
suited  to  lead  on  the  young  mind  by  sure 
and  not  too  laborious  steps.  The  carrying 
out  of  the  plan  is  generally  successful." 

"I  consider  them,  in  all  points,  to  be 
superior  to  any  books  for  the  like  purpose 
with  which  I  am  acquainted." 

"  I  take  pleasure  in  pronouncing  on  them 

a  most  favourable  opinion better 

adapted  to  the  purpose  for  which  they  were 
designed,  than  any  other  school  book  with 
which  I  am  familiar." 

"  To  Teachers  of  Primary  Schools  this 

Series  will  be  a  valuable  auxiliary 

The  hope  is  cordially  expressed,  that  the 
enterprise  of  the  Publishers  may  be  re- 
warded according  to  the  merits  of  the  work 
alone,  which,  in  the  opinion  of  the  Sub- 
scriber, will  amply  repay  them." 

"  I  confidently  pronounce  them  superior 
to  any  books  of  the  kind  I  have  ever  seen." 

"  I  am  entirely  satisfied  of  their  superi- 
ority to  any  books  having  a  similar  purp  jse, 
with  which  I  am  acquainted." 

"  I  have  had  actual  proof  of  their  practi- 
cal utility  in  creating  an  interest  in  the  vo- 
latile minds  of  children,  and  securing  their 

attention On  the  whole,    not   to    be 

tedious,  I  most  heartily  approve  the  plan, 
and  recommend  the  adoption  of  your 
Series." 

"  Esteeming  it  decidedly  the  best  ele- 
mentary work  which  I  have  seen,  I  hope 
it  will  be  generally  introduced  into  the 
schools  for  which  it  is  designed." 

"  I  beg  leave  to  say  that  I  have  not  mel 
with  any  book  of  the  kind  so  well  adapted 
to  the  capacities  of  young  children." 
(559) 


"  I  have  been  exceedingly  gratified  by  a 

perusal  of  them I  consider  your  books 

superior  to  any  now  in  use." 

"I  believe  them  to  be  much  better 
Adapted  for  the  purpose,  than  any  work 
with  which  I  am  acquainted." 

' '  Both  the  plan  and  arrangement  I  highly 
ipprove." 

"  The  Series  is,  in  my  opinion,  the  best 
lhat  has  fallen  under  my  notice." 

"  I  consider  it  the  best  work  for  the  pur- 
pose that  I  have  seen." 

"  I  believe  them  to  be  remarkably  well 
calculated  for  the  instruction  of  the  begin- 
ner." 

"  I  find  in  them  a  progressive  and  well- 
chosen  series  of  lessons,  happily  adapted  to 
the  capacity  of  young  learners." 

"I  believe  them  to  be  better  calculated  to 
expedite  the  education  of  children  than  any 
works  that  have  come  under  my  notice." 

"I  feel  no  hesitation  in  recommending 
it  [the  Series]  as  the  best  work  for  promot- 
ing the  object  intended  with  which  I  am 
acquainted." 

"Kay's  Infant  and  Primary  School 
Series  appears  to  me  to  be  a  work  in  every 
respect  adapted  to  the  wants  of  children 
who  are  just  entering  on  the  study  of  writ- 
ten language In  these  little  vo- 
lumes, words  are  truly  the  signs  of  ideas. 
Here  the  child  may  not  only  be  taught  to 
ead  with  facility,  but,  almost  unaided,  to 
understand  what  he  reads So  nume- 
rous and  important  are  the  advantages  pre- 
sented to  both  teacher  and  pupil,  that  a 
more  extended  acquaintance  with  the  work 
cannot  fail  to  secure  its  general  adoption  in 
Primary  Schools  " 

"I  have  most  carefully  read  over  and 
examined  '  Kay's  Infant  and  Primary 
School  Series,'  and  have  no  hesitation  in 
eaying  they  are  most  admirably  adapted  for 
Vfceir  intended  and  professed  object." 


Kay's  Infant  and  Primary  School  Readers  and  Definers. 


"I  should  predict  many  benefits  will 
result  from  the  general  introduction  of 
these  works  into  schools,  in  which,  I  trust, 
my  own  will  share." 

"  Having  critically  examined  these  beau- 
tiful little  works,  I  cheerfully  recommend 
them  to  teachers." 

"I  have  no  hesitation  in  pronouncing 
them  to  be  by  far  the  best  books  of  the 
kind  for  young  persons  in  our  language." 

"  Having  used  them,  I  am  convinced 
that  every  one  who  will  give  them  a  trial, 
will  find  them  to  interest  their  pupils,  and 
advance  their  progress,  more  than  anything 
of  the  kind  that  has  yet  appeared." 

"  Upon  the  whole,  I  am  constrained  to 
believe  it  to  be  the  best  work  of  the  kind 
with  which  I  am  acquainted." 

"  I  consider  the  plan  well  calculated  to 
bring  forward  the  younger  class  of  Scholars. 
Accordingly,  I  have  introduced  it  into  my 
schools." 

"Parents  and  Teachers  who  wish  for 
books  both  attractive  and  interesting,  will 
find  these  to  be  just  what  they  require." 

"The  designer  of  'Kay's  Series'  has 
produced  a  work,  in  my  opinion,  superior, 
in  very  many  respect?  o  the  works  of  those 
who  have  gone  befo.     him." 

"They  are,  in  my  judgment,  better, 
much  better  calculated  lor  the  purpose  for 
which  they  are  intended,  than  all  put  toge- 
ther that  have  preceded  them  ;  and  I  trust 
that  the  public  will  join  me  in  this  opinion." 

"  I  should  have  no  hesitancy  in  at  once 
placing  them  in  the  hands  of  beginners,  in 
preference  to  all  others." 

"  I  have  carefully  examined  them. ...  I 
consider  them  extremely  well  adapted  to 
improve  those  for  whom  they  are  intended." 

"The  design  is  excellent,  and  has  been 
executed  most  successfully." 

"  I  consider  them  exceedingly  well 
adapted  to  the  purposes  of  Primary  edu- 
cation." 

"I  have  carefully  examined  'Kay's 
Series,'  and  feel  no  hesitation  in  saying 
that  I  consider  them  superior  to  any  series 
of  the  kind  now  extant." 

"I  have  just  finished  a  careful  exami- 
nation of  '  Kay's  Series,'  and  rarely,  if 
ever,  have  I  met  with  a  work  for  children 
which  made  so  favourable  an  impression  on 
my  mind.  The  author  seems  to  possess 
the  happy  art  of  converting  what  was 
deemed   labour    to   pastime,    and  pain  to 

pleasure Henceforth  children  may  be 

taught  to  speak  their  first  words  from  his 
books.  The  author  has,  in  my  judgment, 
discovered  and  adopted  the  true  simplicity 
of  nature.  I  can  but  regard  its  publication 
as  an  era  in  American  education  —  indeed 
in  the  English  language." 

"  I  have  diligently  examined  '  Kay's 
Series,'  and  think  it  superiorly  well  adapted 
to  the  improvement  of  the  infant  mind." 

"  I  have  given  them  as  full  an  examina- 
tion as  time  and  circumstances  would  per- 
mit ;  sufficient,  however,  to  satisfy  myself 
of  their  intrinsic  merits,  and  entire  adapta- 
tion to  the  class  of  students  for  which  they 
are  intended." 


"The  theory  of  teaching  written  lan- 
guage, as  exemplified  in  '  Kay's  Progres- 
sive Series'  of  Reading  Books,  is,  in  my 
opinion,  the  true  one  ;  and  the  practice 
upon  it  must  lead  to  the  happiest  issues. 
It  is  nature's  method  of  teaching  written 
language.  I  shall  lose  no  time  in  intro 
ducing  them  into  my  school." 

"  I  have  examined  them  with  attention, 
and  believe  them  to  be  quite  superior  to 
any  thing  of  the  kind,  for  the  purpose  in- 
tended, which  has  met  my  view." 

"  I  conceive  them  to  be  the  best,  of  the 
kind,  with  which  I  am  acquainted,  and 
intend  using  them  in  my  school." 

"  I  feel  no  hesitation  in  saying  that  they 
are  decidedly  better  adapted  lor  training 
the  Infant  mind,  than  any  work  with  whicE 
I  am  acquainted." 

"  The  admirable  manner  in  which  they 
are  '  gotten  up,'  the  introduction  of  tb.6 
Script  characters,  and  the  Elementary 
Exercises  in  Drawing,  give  them  a  supe- 
riority over  all  works  of  the  kind  that  have 
fallen  under  my  observation." 

"From  a  critical  examination  of  them, 
I  believe  that  they  are  well  adapted  to  the 
end  they  propose  to  subserve. ...  I  will  do 
whatever  lies  in  my  power  to  introduce 
them  to  public  attention." 

"  I  have  carefully  examined  '  Kay's  Pro- 
gressive Series.'  I  think  they  are  admirably 
adapted  to  the  capacity  of  children.  I  shah 
introduce  them  into  my  Primary  School." 

"Their  advantage  over  other  works  of 
the  kind  consists  in  their  conducting  the 
child  st^p  by  step,  by  easy  and  pleasant 
gradations,  through  the  incipient  stages  of 
its  study." 

"  Having  carefully  examined  'Kay's  Se- 
ries,' I  recommend  it,  as,  in  my  judgment, 
the  best  work  for  the  purpose  intended 
with  which  I  am  acquainted." 

"  I  can  recommend  them  to  those  who 
instruct  young  children  as  valuable  aux- 
iliaries." 

"  Having  examined  them,  I  have  been 
much  pleased  with  the  new  and  valuable 
features  introduced  into  them,  and  recom- 
mend them  to  the  public  as  better  adapteu 
to  the  purpose  of  Elementary  instruction, 
than  any  series  which  I  have  seen." 

"Having  for  a  length  of  time  experienced 
the  want  of  some  introductory  work,  suited 
to  the  capacity  of  the  child  —  one  by  which 
his   ideas  'might   be  taught  to  assume  i 
tangible  form,  from  the  matter  presented  tc 
his  mind  —  we  have  carefully  and   atten- 
tively examined  '  Kay's  Infant  and  Frimary 
School  Reader,  in  three  volumes,'  a  work 
purporting  to  supply  the  deficiency  com- 
plained of,  and  we  have  no  hesitation  in 
giving  it  our  decided  and  unqualified  ap- 
proval.    The  works  heretofore  in  use  have 
presented  a  mass  of  matter,  without  anj 
adaptation  to  the  comprehension  of  those 
for  whom  they  were  intended;  the  inteliec- 
j  tual  food  was  too  gross  for  the  delicate  con- 
stitution  of  the  infant  mind,  and   tendec 
I  rather  to  injure  than  improve  its  tone.  . . . 
J  The  best  evidence  of  our  approval,  is  the 
!  introduction  of  the  work  into  oar  school." 


m  4T 


'«%.« 


